


Shadow of a Dragon

by yeaka



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Anal Sex, Angst, M/M, Pon Farr, Romance, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-26
Updated: 2014-02-03
Packaged: 2018-01-10 02:39:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 25,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1153783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ever ungrateful and insolent to the Vulcan Empire, Jim earns his final sentence. He’s sacrificed to the secret son of an ambassador, locked away deep in the mountains. And things will grow from there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. ~

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [【授翻】Shadow of a Dragon（主SK）](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7438131) by [hjy9524](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hjy9524/pseuds/hjy9524)



> A/N: Been wanting to do this for a while. Rating is for much later chapters. Please bear with me. It's inspired mostly by Ico.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own Star Trek or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

This isn’t like the last time. 

When he was taken before this, he was thrown in a cell, read scriptures and hooked up to machines, studied to the letter and told how to change. Counseling, they called it. Rehabilitation. He didn’t subscribe to the starship draft, not because he didn’t want the stars— _he wanted it with every fibre of his being_ —but because he wouldn’t do it on their terms. He doesn’t care for his lot in life. He’s a scum-of-the-Earth Iowa farm boy, predetermined to where the Vulcan hand guides him, and James T. Kirk _doesn’t like that._

He’s not the only human of dissent. But he was one of too few in that bar, outweighed by those that have already succeeded. He drank too much, talked too much: nothing new. 

He wound up on the floor with blood all over his face and pounding in his ears, sirens already blaring, calling for their overlords. The authorities picked him up and dusted him off, and he struggled in preparation for the holding cell. 

He struggled through being washed and cleaned and healed, struggled through being dressed—he’s not a child—but that shouldn’t have been. The last time, and the time before that, and the time before that—all the many times he’s been _wrong_ —he was never treated like this. 

And now he’s been on a shuttle, been through a transporter, stumbled and fell into armoured arms, taken by heavy guards up the steep steps of the mountain. He isn’t stupid. He learned in school, even if he didn’t _listen_ , and he knows all about the council he half thought to be mythical. 

He’s swept into the shrine and forced to kneel, arms bound behind his back—a product of his noted tendency towards violence, though he only employs it where he deems necessary—leg slipping between the part in the long, ceremonial robes. Bright gold and ornately designed, intricate and foreign, the expensive fabric feels so strange on his skin. It fastens around his waist, covers him, but the bared ‘v’ of his chest is as icy as his feet. Vulcan is stifling hot, but this chamber room is chilling, the atmosphere made worse by the stoic figures that stroll towards him. Jim breathes too loudly and shifts against the stone. He’s in the middle of a raised, circular dais, larger than life statues adorning the brim. The five Vulcans that sweep forward are covered in dull, white-and-brown robes, thick and wrapped every last strip of their bodies. They’re all old as the earth, frowning, cold. Jim forces himself to look, no less defiant than he was to the overstuffed man in the bar. 

The council stops only a meter from him, one man at the head, the others right behind. They don’t seem to breathe as Jim does. Don’t move. These are those that control both of their planets, have overseen Jim’s entire life since birth, never knowing his name, and he’s no less contemptuous of them now. But he’s tired and sore from being dragged and pushed, dizzy from not being fed. He looks up at them and wonders _why_. A man like him should be sent to a penal colony, not brought to meet his fuehrer. 

The one at the helm speaks. His voice is low, even and unerring. He speaks Jim’s name, “James Kirk,” and tells him, “You have been brought before the High Council. I am Ambassador Sarek.” And the man nods his head, like this is some fair trail and not a one-way tribunal. “We believe you must have some estimate of why you are here.”

And Jim, fed-up-with-it-all Jim, spits, “I punched out one too many of your lackeys?” He can taste the blood in his mouth. His voice echoes eerily off the jagged walls all around them. The hanging lights do nothing for heat, nothing for comfort. The Vulcans don’t laugh at his joke, but he didn’t expect them to. The one in front—Sarek—lifts one dark, aged eyebrow. 

“It is true that your record has come to a regrettable end. We are all... less than impressed with your behaviour, James.” _James_ , like they’re friends. Like these are disappointed parents and his report card is less than they know he can do. They tell him, “You have tested well in both intelligence and strength. You would have made a fine officer if you were not so...”

“Illogical?” Jim interrupts, wanting to laugh bitterly. 

Sarek merely says, “Human.” And he draws his arms behind his back, posture as straight and solid as the statues. He embodies them.

It reminds Jim of his own wrists, straining against their metal bonds, sore and unnecessary. His chains are a joke against his clothes, and he doesn’t understand. They’re sick of him, yes. Too many spots on his record. Why can’t they just lock him up and be done with it?

But Sarek tells him, “You have been selected for an important role. This will be your fate instead of the penal colony you seem so eager to join.” Done. Decided.

Jim _stares_ up at his captors. He doesn’t know what the important role is, but no one tells him his destiny. He opens his mouth to speak, and Sarek lifts one hand. 

On queue, the other Vulcans turn. In the same configuration as they came, they leave, the four of those that never spoke. Jim can still feel the presence of the guards on either side of him, he’s still helpless to respond, and he squints at Sarek, trying to understand. 

For a moment, he considers fighting. Struggling again. Perhaps he could lunge at the old man, do real damage before the guards flung him off—apparently his fate’s been sealed anyway. But he’s smarter than that, and he waits. The even footsteps disappear into the shadows of the room, and so far away, the great doors open. 

The others disappear, and Sarek tells him, quite simply and finitely, “You are to be given to my son.”

Jim _stares_.

There’s nothing more to do. He looks at Sarek, speechless, and for a moment, his brain is blank, shocked into silence. 

Then it’s stirring, seething, _roaring_ as heat rises in Jim’s neck, colours his face. He doesn’t want some special role. He doesn’t want to be their puppet, do this dance, he didn’t want to serve some dictators pretending to be benevolent, even back then. He wants _freedom_ , and he’s sick of these chains. Furious, he shouts across the open hall, “I am no one’s slave!”

But the guards grab him. His shoulders are steadied, forced still, _damn their Vulcan strength._ He strains against them and makes it clear in every cell of his body that he’ll take his chances in their sick form of justice. 

Sarek taunts him with a sigh, a deceptively human gesture. “It was my wish that you would submit willingly. If that cannot be, so be it. There is no time to select another candidate.”

“You can’t do this,” Jim snarls. “There are rules, laws, your own damn laws—”

But the guards are already jerking him to his feet. Sarek is already turning. No explanation. _Why_ the ambassador’s son needs a slave—a criminal—Jim has no idea, Jim couldn’t care. He’s struggling against their grip, fighting a losing battle. He sees Sarek turning, slipping off, as though he hasn’t just condemned a man to the status of _possession_. 

Some days, Jim thinks he should’ve gone to the stars. 

Today he just rages, tearing at himself from the inside. The Vulcans think they own the universe. 

He knew he was never going to be free.

It doesn’t lessen the blow.


	2. ~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Was not going to update so fast, but then I got a bunch of lovely comments. Did you know I love you guys? :) Sorry these are so short, though. :(

The leash and collar they fix to his neck aren’t enough to hold him. He won’t be led in. He won’t be walked along like some member of a grand procession. He’s not a part of their insane ceremony; he’s an unwilling victim, and he has to be forced into a cage. His wrists are bound to his collar, the leash still trailing down his body, wearing the same golden robes as before. He feels like some gourmet dish being taken to some monster to eat, and he doesn’t at all find it amusing. 

They hike him up, four Vulcans at once, one to each corner. They march him through the mist, across the high, stone bridge that leads to the heart of another mountain, some ancient, precious shrine. He stops talking when he’s screamed himself hoarse and no one’s listened. He thinks the Vulcan that leads their trail is some sort of priest, and he’d lunge through the bars and strangle them if he could. 

But he’s _weak_. He’s starved and exhausted, bound and useless, and he’s sure they want him like that. Unable to fight his faceless captor. The great mountain draws nearer and nearer, and over the sides of the thin bridge, there’s no ground to be seen. They’re high enough up that the clouds seal them in, seal the sky. It’s grey and ugly. The bottom bars of the cage dig into his legs through the fabric of his robes, and he slumps against the front, forehead taking the cool metal as a relief for the sweltering heat of the open air. Vulcan is _hell_. 

There are great, towering doors carved in the mountain, so much more than any one man could move. When they reach these doors, the men around Jim’s cage lower him to the ground. The cage is too small for him to stand; he can only sit, curled in as he is, and watch all ten of the Vulcans move to levers and handles, one-sided mechanisms to keep the ancient secrets in. Why the hell Jim’s being taken into this, he can’t even fathom. Why the son of an ambassador would be in such a place is equally as strange. But he knows they won’t answer his questions, and he waits as the doors are slowly opened, creaking and groaning, scraping outwards to unleash more shadows on the world. At first, all Jim can see is _darkness_.

The four carriers lift his cage back to their shoulders, and he sucks in a breath as they take him in. He throws his shoulder once against the side, a useless gesture to try and rock free, but he needs that final show for himself: the reminder that he will not allow this. He’s a prisoner, not some compliant tool. His carriers absorb the impact with no reaction. He’s marched into a grand room of chiseled stone that seems to reach up forever, only the faintest cracks in the ceiling letting in small, weak rays of light. The back wall is lined in odd, ancient-looking carvings like vines and flowers, the floor raised after several sets of stairs to a sort of stage. There are no lit torches, no statues of figures, no carpets or machines or anything Jim’s used to. He tries to soak in his surroundings, maybe formulate an escape, but he’s too numb to make it. 

He’s carried up the stairs. The priest has fallen behind, the others trailing behind that, guards with swords and phasers and weapons Jim’s never seen used before. At the very height of the stage, Jim’s taken to the center. He’s just below the few beams of sunlight, and the contrast of the outside, the room, and now this pale spotlight is too much for his eyes to take. He scrunches them closed and looks away. He’s lowered to the ground and hears his cage unlocking. Something clinks against the floor—he looks to see the key set down. Jim stares at the still-closed door and sucks in all his breath, his adrenaline clouding his ears. 

If he weren’t bound, he’d scramble out. He’d fight them, _all_ of them, youthful guards and withered priest alike, go out fighting. But instead, he stays shriveled, wilted as they leave them. He doesn’t bother to look over his shoulder. He can hear all their footsteps leaving. _Leaving_. They’re abandoning him here in the peaks of their mountains, trapped in ruins, left to die in the ancient darkness. This... isn’t what he thought it would be. 

This is more than he can take, and he leans his head against the side of the cage, because he couldn’t take the humiliation of his own weight springing the front door open. He’ll wait until the too-many opponents leave and try his hand. Their footsteps seem to take forever to disappear, this one chamber vaster than the whole of Jim’s family farm and all the land they held. 

A part of Jim knows he’ll never see that farm again. He doesn’t know if he’ll ever see the light of Earth’s sun again. It makes his throat constrict, his heart _hurt_. The light closes slowly out as the great doors are once again sealed, and Jim’s just about ready to cry. Desperation, frustration, he tells himself. If there’s one thing in this world Jim can’t stand being, it’s helpless. 

The doors close. They’re all gone. He’s locked inside. Jim’s more than helpless. For a moment, his breath runs away from him. He almost hyperventilates. He forces himself to rein it in. It’s so _dark_. He throws his head back, stares at the cracks in the impossibly high roof of the mountain, and the sky seems so horribly far away. He hangs his head again and yanks at his bonds. He growls and yanks harder, harder, it hurts, but he doesn’t care, tugs and tries to feel back, tries to reach around the collar. He wants it off, wants the leash off, wants these stupid robes off—he feels like some expensive concubine that’s been auctioned off, and that’s _not_ what he bargained for. He claws at his throat in vain, gives up and _shrieks_ at nothing, at no one, agony ripping through him. It echoes off the walls. His own voice makes him feel so terribly alone. 

He slumps, exhausted, and wonders if he’ll just die here before this supposed son ever finds him. 

A few moments. He rocks back and forth, struggling. Licks his lips. He’s been in worse situations, he tells himself, but it’s a lie. Still. He’s not... not going to let them get him like this. He tries to calm himself. He tries to reach around his neck again, tries to feel the contours of this collar, find a way to release it. 

He’s so busy struggling that he doesn’t hear the footsteps, not until they’re halfway to him. Then it’s sudden—a soft footfall on the steps of the stairs, and his head jerks to the side. He has to squint through the darkness, just sees black, rounded black, rising thick, glossy hair, straight and perfect, like every goddamn Vulcan Jim’s ever seen. 

The tips of pointed ears appear, more and more as more steps are scaled. The Vulcan approaches, and Jim _stares_ at him. 

The Vulcan, like himself, is draped in long, ornate, ceremonial robes, rich blue. They fall from his shoulders, open, tied at the middle. Barefoot, the Vulcan climbs the last of the steps. He pauses at the end of the stage, watching Jim. He’s too far in the shadows for Jim to see him properly, but he looks expressionless, emotionless, _dead inside_ like all of them. Jim would rather be a pet for a Klingon, would rather be dead. 

He grits his teeth and glares, and the Vulcan sweeps closer, drawn to full height. He approaches Jim’s cage slowly, leisurely, and Jim doesn’t know whether to snap at him to stay away or break these wretched chains. When he finally reaches the cage, he trails around it. He sinks to his knees in front of the door, graceful in every part of his pale body. His long fingers curl around the key. 

The Vulcan opens the door with the same slowness in everything, and when he reaches in, his hand is careful, like dealing with a skittish animal. Jim instinctively jerks away, can’t help it. But there’s only so far to go in the cage, and the Vulcan simply reaches deeper. His fingers trace the curve of Jim’s neck, and though Jim snarls, he lets the Vulcan touch him, gently unclasping the bindings around him. The Vulcan takes the collar away, the leash still hanging from it, and Jim’s arms drop, sore to the point of numbness. 

Jim still glares up at the Vulcan, even when he holds out an open hand. 

Jim stays in his cage and doesn’t take it. He hisses, firm and commanding even in this horrid place, “I am no one’s slave.”

The Vulcan lifts one eyebrow. His voice is deep and smooth, tone level as he tells Jim quietly, “No. ...You are a sacrifice.”


	3. ~

The paths cut through the mountains are as towering and grand as the entrance. Many of them are completely black, others only sporting slivers of light, and the one they walk through now is empty and a strange contrast of temperatures. The air is thick and humid, but the stone is cold beneath his feet. His robes trail behind him, and he follows the vague shape of the Vulcan before him, stepping steadily through the darkness. Jim’s legs are sore after being forced to kneel for so long, but he refuses to show weakness. 

At the end of the hallway, the Vulcan turns and asks, “What is your name?” His dark eyes aren’t as cruel as his father’s, but they’re _Vulcan_ , nonetheless. 

Jim steps past him into the new chamber, circular and domed. The floor is adorned in a thick smattering of furs, browns and creams. The light above them is dying; maybe the stars will show soon. Jim lets his feet onto the faux-rug, toes squishing pleasantly between strands of hair. Better than stone. Better than bars. He turns back to the Vulcan and debates holding back. 

But there’s nothing to be gained by it, and Jim voices tightly, “Jim. Jim Kirk.” Because a name is something for a person, not a slave. 

The Vulcan nods once in acknowledgement, and Jim has to ask, “You?”

“I am called Spock.” 

“ _Spock_ ,” Jim repeats. The word is strange on his tongue, like all Vulcan names. Jim eyes him warily and adds, mostly just testing the waters, “Your father’s an asshole.” 

Spock lifts an eyebrow but otherwise doesn’t comment. 

He trails past Jim, over the carpets, and makes his way to a small, raised rock along the perimeter. There, he bends to retrieve two bowls that Jim hadn’t noticed, and he returns with both extended. They’re carved out of wood, smooth but simple, shallow and wide. One bears water, the other fruits, some Jim recognizes, some he doesn’t. Jim looks at them, looks at Spock. Not exactly the Synthesizers he’s used to. 

He glances about the room, so different than _everything_ he’s used to. Spock has yet to explain _why_ they’re in this temple. Jim looks at the floor and gestures, asking somewhere between bemused and bitter, “Is this my new bedroom?”

“This is where I sleep,” Spock tells him simply. When Jim just _stares_ —aren’t Vulcans above this barbaric, backwards way?—Spock asks, “Are you not hungry?”

Jim’s _ravenous_. His mouth is dry, but he’s still suspicious as he takes hold of the bowls bowls. Spock’s hands fall to his sides, non-threatening. Jim takes both bowls and turns on a whim, retreating a few meters away. Then he sits and puts the bowl of fruit in his lap, lifting the water to his lips. He’s too thirsty to care that it could be laced with poison—better to die than be Spock’s property anyway. Spock watches him for a moment, then walks deeper into the pile of furs and sits. 

He sits cross-legged and merely watches while Jim gulps down the contents of the bowl. He spills water down his front in the process, over his chin, along his neck, but he can’t care, just keeps going, nearly choking himself and having to stop suddenly, spluttering. It’s good to drink again. He wonders if he should savour it, if there will be more, and when he looks at Spock, Spock says softly, “There is more.” Like he can read Jim’s mind through his eyes. Jim’s too tired to be nervous about that. 

He puts the bowl down anyway and starts on the fruit. He means to turn away but can’t, not with Spock watching him. He plucks an apple from the bowl and sinks his teeth into it—eyes closing in ecstasy. It’s been too long. He feels like he hasn’t eaten in days, but he doesn’t know how long it’s truly been. Always Vulcan _rations_ , tasteless. The insides of the apple are strange, bittersweet—a Vulcan-Earth hybrid, not like back from the farm, but bizarrely delicious. It doesn’t matter. The juice streams down his mouth as bad as the water did, and he stops to wipe it away on his sleeve. But he gives up after a few bites; his lips are destined to be sugar-stained, and he just wants to _eat_.

He goes through two apples, a banana, and a strange round thing that tastes somewhere between a plum and a lemon. He leaves the cores and peel and husk in the bowl, and he drinks more water, and he forgets to look at Spock, to determine anything about his captor, to be anything but exhausted and hungry and then just satiated. When he’s done, he has to wipe himself off again. He looks over to his companion, but Spock’s no longer watching him. 

Spock’s lying down on his side, facing away from Jim. His robe is slipping over one shoulder, and he’s breathing softly, side lifting and falling with the steady intake of air. Jim doesn’t know if he’s sleeping.

Jim... doesn’t know what to do. 

A part of him wants to get up, to run—surely there must be _some_ way out of here, without ten Vulcans on the other side. But the smarter part of him knows there isn’t. Vulcans don’t build flimsy shrines. It’s a _mountain_. Even if there were any way out, he wouldn’t be able to find it. And it’ll be dark soon. It’s dark as it is. Could he wind his way through a maze in pitch black, still weak from his journey and weaponless? It would be stupid, and the rest of him is too heavy to care. 

Setting the bowls aside, Jim creeps closer to the Vulcan on sheer instinct. Perhaps he could kill Spock while he slept—smother him with furs or choke him. It likely wouldn’t work. And then Jim would just be alone. But he’d be free in at least one sense. He looks at Spock’s back and wonders if he has it in him to kill a sleeping stranger. 

He knows he doesn’t. He could demand answers, but he has what he needs. He’s trapped; does anything else matter? He stares at Spock and sighs, slumps down to the floor. 

He lies on his side and watches Spock breathe. Their robes are so similar, just one in gold and one in blue. It doesn’t feel like a slave and master sort of thing, but what does Jim know? A part of him just wants to shed these rags and stay in his human skin, but somehow, lying naked next to Spock would feel like a surrender. Like he was offering himself, and he’s _not_.

He stretches in the furs. They’re warm, pleasant. Soft. He rolls onto his back, but still his head turns to watch the back of the Vulcan’s head. He can admit, on a peripheral level, that Spock is very handsome. And that means something; Jim’s usually turned off by Vulcan features: symbols of his oppressor. But it doesn’t matter. A handsome captor is just a captor. And Jim’s no sacrifice to anything. 

Jim stares at Spock’s back until he falls asleep, but Spock never once turns around.


	4. ~

In the morning, Jim wakes to a bleary memory and the odd feeling that _this isn’t his bed._ He’s woken up in holding cells before, but this isn’t the cold, rigid table he’s used to. This is rich, warm furs and luxurious, soft fabric draped over his skin. The light is dim, beautiful, streaming down from the cracks in an elaborate roof so very high above. They wash over the back of _Spock_ , and suddenly Jim remembers everything. 

He breathes out against his makeshift bed. The little hairs in front of him sway. There’s a golden halo along the outline of Spock’s side, lying in the same place it was yesterday. Straight, flawless hair, pointed ears, blue robes dipping over one shoulder. Jim stretches to get more comfortable, shifting. He settled too close. If he reached out, he could touch Spock’s back. 

But instead, he curls in and stays where he is. His breathing’s still heavy, head still thin. He watches Spock sleep while he drifts in and out, coasting through the midst of the morning. 

And eventually, Spock stirs. Jim closes his eyes and pretends to sleep. He hears Spock suck in breath, hears Spock stretch, hears the subtle rustle of shifting fabric. He peeks one eye open to steal a look: Spock is on his back, eyes closed, body arched, stretching like a cat. And then he looks sideways, and Jim hurriedly closes his eyes again. 

More movement. The footsteps are hard to pick up through the lack of clothes and the plush floor, but Jim strains and listens. He only opens his eyes again when he thinks it safe, hears Spock retreating. He’s just in time to see Spock slip through a crack in the rocks, one of a few half-hidden corridors. Jim sits up slowly and stifles his own yawn. 

He’s thirsty, and his bladder’s full, and he could go for more food. He could go for a change of clothes, but there’s nothing else to wear. He heads to the bowls from yesterday, half empty but still there. The remaining fruits still look fine, so Jim bites into something vaguely resembling a pear and lets the natural juices quench his thirst. He finds a small fissure along the edge of the cave, away from the furs, and he pisses down it, feeling half immaturely smug for taking the liberty in a shrine. But Spock didn’t tell him where else to go, so it’s inevitable. 

When he’s done, he sits back in the furs. He finds the semi-flattened space and warmth of the place he slept, next to the vague imprint of Spock’s. For a moment, he stretches out in it. He could almost sleep again. But... there’s something too restless in him. He was stubborn yesterday. Still is, always is. But he does need answers. 

So he pushes back to his feet and trails towards the cavern Spock slipped into. It’s a roughly carved corridor, small and without light save for a dim glow on the other side of a somewhat winding path. Jim follows it, one hand on either wall. His steps are careful, and the floor is smooth but uneven, difficult in places. He feels like he’s making his way downward, but he can’t be sure. 

The other side opens into another large room, carved with more precision. It has a set of shallow stairs leading to what looks like a fountain: a pool of clear water interrupted by strange and abstract statues. Along the wall, a high slab is carved with Vulcan scripture, and there are a few smatterings of greenery between stones: odd, white flowers that dwell in the dark. The few slivers of light are from cracked slits in the ceiling, pouring diagonally down to wash over the head of the fountain. 

Spock sits on the edge, his feet kicking aimlessly in the water. He looks up at Jim’s entrance, but he doesn’t call out to Jim. The distance between them is too great to speak in. Jim doesn’t say anything either. 

He comes out of the corridor and heads towards the fountain, trying to take it all in and failing. It’s gorgeous, in a way. Breathtaking. But it’s terrifying in others, hollow, and dark, and lonely. When Jim climbs the stairs, he finds fish swimming through the water, small, solid things. It feels strange that anything else should live here. When he looks at Spock, he can’t quite seem to summon the anger Vulcans usually give him. 

He comes to sit beside Spock, though he doesn’t touch the water, and he asks, quiet to avoid the echo, “What are you doing here?” Spock’s head tilts slightly to the side, eyes slipping elsewhere, and his lips part, but he doesn’t answer. It’s as if he doesn’t know how to. After a minute, Jim asks instead, “How long have you been here?”

Spock looks back to him and says, “I do not remember.”

Vulcans keep track of numbers easily, but Vulcans don’t lie. The common idiom rings in Jim’s head, but he searches Spock’s eyes anyway, finding nothing deceptive. Up close, Spock’s face is angular, lean, well built. Bow lips, dark eyes, long lashes, tilted brows. His complexion is paler, yellowish, but it might be the light. He doesn’t add anything, and Jim asks simply, “Why?”

At first, Jim thinks Spock doesn’t understand him. Spock looks back to the fish, moves his feet through the water. Then he begins to speak, slow and deep, like explaining something he’s resigned himself to a long, long time ago. “I am... a biological mistake.” Jim squints at him, doesn’t understand, and Spock goes on: “I am neither Vulcan, nor human. An abomination of blood that cannot be exposed to the people. My mere existence is proof of something that cannot be allowed.” He doesn’t look at Jim the entire time he speaks, and there is no intonation to his words. But Jim’s...

Jim’s numb. “That’s ridiculous.” He half-laughs when he says it, not out of any humour. Spock glances at him, and Jim rephrases, because he doesn’t _understand_ , “They’ve locked you up in here because... because you’re a half-breed?”

But Spock nods: a gesture that does make him look perhaps a little human. Suddenly everything about him looks _different_. Jim doesn’t even know what to say. 

Jim looks away and licks his lips. He can see a blur of his own reflection in the water’s surface—still a mess of sweat and frustration. He rakes a hand back through his hair. 

Spock’s reflection, beside his, is unmoving and cool. He sees Spock’s lips move in the water. “It is for the best. I cannot contaminate the Vulcan bloodlines this way, nor will others.”

“Your father,” Jim mutters, but he doesn’t continue. _Fucked a human_. Bred one. That’s the only explanation. The thought makes him sick. The Vulcans might be dictators, but they didn’t kill, and, he thought, didn’t rape. He can’t imagine any human willing sleeping with a Vulcan. ...Bearing a Vulcan child. It makes him look at Spock... very differently. He doesn’t finish the sentence the way he meant it. “Left you in here?”

“A sentimental failing.” Spock says it like an admission of fact. “A more logical man would have killed me.”

Jim’s... Jim’s just speechless. He lifts one knee to rest his arm on, runs through his hair again and looks at the water. The idea of a father locking their child up in a mountain is just... he can’t even imagine it. He’s never understood Vulcans. Spock looks sideways at him and has the nerve to say, “I am sorry you have been forced into this position.”

Jim laughs dryly. “It’s not your fault.” Another lick of his lips. “ _Fuck,_ it’s not... not your fault at all.” Glancing back, he adds, “You’re as much a victim as I am.”

Spock looks at him curiously. He shouldn’t know how to read Spock’s face, but he can see that Spock doesn’t think of it that way. That he never has. Even after all this time. 

Breathing out, Jim shifts his position. He pulls back his robes and lets his toes dip into the pool—the cool water is a small relief, though the sweltering heat isn’t what’s pushing in on him. His head feels like it’s throbbing. It hardly even feels important anymore to ask about his own role—so _small_ compared to the lifetime Spock’s spent here. Still, he needs to know. “...What am I a sacrifice for?”

Spock doesn’t answer right away. 

The fish in the pond, every so often, swirl around Spock’s feet, but they avoid Jim’s, like Spock’s body is simply something they’re used to. Jim irrationally feels like he’s disturbing them, but he doesn’t pull out. If he and Spock have food and water here, they can survive, maybe even without the sun. Jim’s always wanted more than survival, but it’s something. 

Finally, Spock asks, “You have, no doubt, heard of _pon farr_?” He doesn’t look around. 

Jim’s blood runs _cold_. His body tenses immediately. Of _course_ he knows what it is. He shouldn’t, but everyone does—he notices when stray, stoic, law-enforcing Vulcans suddenly seem to go wild, then disappear for days, always bonded just after. He’s heard horror stories of those that don’t report in time, but of course, it’s always been a Vulcan problem. ...Until they snap and bash in a human’s skull, anyway. He grits his teeth, and he _knows_ it’s not Spock’s fault, but he still wants to say that he won’t be for that. 

When he doesn’t answer, Spock seems to assume. Spock continues, “My time is approaching, and I would go mad. They know this. They are... they are surely hoping I would content myself with you.”

“Not some Vulcan woman,” Jim bites out. He can’t look at Spock, just stares down at his human feet.

“There is no Vulcan woman that deserves my sullied blood. You do not either, but in their eyes, it is a lesser need. They had to give me a human, one without reproductive organs, so that I could not breed. It is a precaution in case, in the madness of the condition, I somehow found a way to escape and wreck havoc with my dirty blood.”

Jim feels terrible, _terrible_ for Spock, and still he snarls, “I’m not going to be your fucktoy.” Because he’s not. He won’t. He shakes his head, and he kicks violently through the water, a useless expression of aggression, splashing both their damn ceremonial robes. For all the peace and logic they preach, Jim knows what strength, what violence Vulcans are capable of. And he won’t be a victim to that. He looks at Spock to glare and finds Spock watching him back. Spock’s face is level, but if there’s any emotion in it, it’s sadness. 

He tells Jim in that same practiced tone, “I have already decided. When the time comes, I will accept my fate.”

Jim’s mouth falls open. If that means what he thinks it means...

Spock explains, “You will lock me in the cage you were brought in, and you will leave me to die.”


	5. ~

There are several fountains scattered around the temple, one very similar to the first one Jim found Spock in, only larger and deeper and without any fish. Though there are more than enough caverns to never see each other, Jim finds himself trailing Spock whenever he can, finds Spock trailing him. It’s too large to not be _lonely_. Jim tells himself that he just doesn’t know his way around, but he knows there’s more. 

When he gets up in the morning, he heads to the larger fountain first, and Spock automatically follows, carrying a stack of things he must’ve fetched while Jim slept. He brings Jim new fruit, new water, and he holds an old-fashioned, ancient-looking, dilapidated book below the bowls. Where he got it from, Jim isn’t sure, and Jim doesn’t bother to ask. He never learned to read Vulcan. He supposes Spock must need _something_ to do all day, every day, though there’s far too little light to read, in Jim’s opinion. Perhaps the effort keeps his mind off other things. 

They don’t speak of pon farr. Jim can’t condemn a man to die, but he won’t be a slave to a stranger’s needs, and the thoughts just leads him in an endless circle of depression. So he puts it aside. There’s nothing he can do about it for now. He climbs the steps to the pool, and Spock strolls to the head of it, placing down all his things. He sits on his legs, nestled against a small stone that looks like it must’ve fallen from the ceiling many, many years ago. It’s as much light as there is to get in the small room, and Spock opens his book while the muted rays slip over his hair and shoulders. He looks like some sort of statue, something precious and beautiful, lounging about like that. Jim forces himself to look away; he doesn’t need to go down that road. 

The robes are a hassle, and they mean nothing to him. He’s been wearing his because it’s the only clothing he has, but now that he’s determined he needs a bath, their use has run out. Jim shrugs the fabric from his shoulders and unties the sash, letting it all fall from his body, sinking to a messy puddle on the floor. He’s only vaguely self-conscious; it’s not like he hasn’t been naked in front of men before. From the corner of his peripherals, he can see that Spock is paying him no mind, giving him, in some sense, a respective privacy. Since being left here, Spock hasn’t forced Jim into a single thing. Years of Vulcan oppression are deep in Jim’s skin, but Spock’s... Spock’s something else.

Spock doesn’t move as Jim dips one foot into the water, shivering at the temperature, only slightly cooler than the warm air. No need for clothes. There are no steps on the inside of the pool, but still, Jim takes a moment to adjust. Then he sucks in a breath and jumps.

The impact is refreshing, easy, scattering a cloud of water above him, droplets no doubt hitting his robes. He doesn’t care. He can’t help but smile. He hasn’t been swimming in a long time, and he’s certainly not used to it while in any sort of penitentiary. Although, as far as cages go, this one, he’ll admit, isn’t particularly bad. 

At first, Jim just wades, moving in the water for the sake of it, feeling the familiar ease and weightlessness. There’s no soap to clean with, but he runs his fingers over different parts of his body, feeling like he’s touching and stripping away layers of caked sweat and dirt and blood. At the end of the fountain, it disappears into a small fissure—Jim assumes it keeps going, like a river, maybe hits a waterfall or a lake or something; he doesn’t know. Hopefully the water moves enough to be clean again tomorrow. He feels vaguely like he’s soiling it, and then he reminds himself that soiling a Vulcan shrine should be no concern of his. 

The fountain is more than large enough to do laps in. After a bit of useless scrubbing, Jim switches to swimming back and forth. At the end, he ducks down in the water, soaking his hair and trying to see beyond the crack in the wall, but it’s too dark to know where it goes. Sometime, Jim will have to see what’s beyond it, just because exploring is in his nature. But for now, he’s still adjusting. Of course, it could be dangerous, if he gets stuck below and can’t find his way back up again in the dark...

He swims back to the other end, the one with Spock at the helm, and he stops at the side. Hungry, he reaches for the fruit bowl, having to hike up over the edge to try and reach. He gets the water everywhere, but he’s still a few centimeters short. Spock notices and pushes the bowl closer—Jim mumbles, “Thanks,” and pulls out an apple. 

He stays in the water while he eats, arms over the edge and feet wading, just a little bit off the bottom. The apples here are good, juicy, and he wonders absently where they come from—there must be a garden or something. Without the sun, he hasn’t any idea how they grow, but he supposes it doesn’t matter. There doesn’t seem to be any other food, which won’t last him forever, but at the moment, he’s just taking it one day at a time. 

Spock simply continues to read while he chews, the water disguising stray juices. There’s nothing else to look at, nothing interesting anyway. Spock’s face is gentle, resigned, and his eyes barely seem to move as he skims his pages. Around a chunk of apple still in his mouth, Jim finds himself saying here, “I suppose it could be worse.”

Lowering the book, Spock looks down at Jim’s bare form. Most of Jim is hidden by the edge of the pool, but he still feels his cheeks heat. There’s nothing untoward in Spock’s gaze. He asks, with one rising eyebrow, “ _It_?”

“Life here.” Jim uses the half-eaten apple to gesture around. “I mean, I’m not saying I’m okay with it, but... I did think it would be worse. And I suppose it’s better than a penal colony.”

The corners of Spock’s lips twitch downwards, and he asks, “You are from a penal colony?”

“Didn’t think they’d give you a pure, sweet maiden, did you?” It was meant to be a joke, but as soon as Jim’s said it, he regrets it. Spock doesn’t look like the sort to get jokes, and that makes it sound like Spock shouldn’t have expected to deserve someone better. Shaking his head at himself, Jim sighs and corrects, “Sorry. I... I’m not from a penal colony. Just Earth. I had... well, sort of a bad record when they caught me...” He lifts his head again, challengingly, but he can see, he _knows_ that Spock isn’t judging him. 

Spock merely nods. For a moment, it looks like he’s going to go back to reading, but then he places it on top of the rock and reaches for a fruit instead, a small, purplish thing resembling a plum. It’s the first time Jim’s seen him eat, but that’s no excuse for the quick intake of breath. Jim watches Spock’s bow lips part, watches the way his teeth sink into the fruit’s flesh, the way his pink tongue darts out to sweep the juice away. Jim watches Spock chew, watches Spock swallow, watches his adam’s apple bob and his teeth go in for another bite. Jim forces himself to look away when he finds himself staring. He always did have a healthy libido, but... now really isn’t the time. Not here with a... a Vulcan. He reminds himself: a _half_ -Vulcan.

He takes another bite of his apple. It sounds so much louder than Spock’s bites, so much bigger, and suddenly he feels messy and self-conscious, and he finishes quickly, absently holding out the core. When Spock doesn’t offer advice, he drops it in the bowl. Perhaps it doesn’t matter if it touches other food. There’s nothing but the two of them here anyway. 

His eyes glance over the carved ruins on the back wall while Spock eats, though the light isn’t close enough there to make anything out. A part of him wants to thank Spock for feeding him, but instead, he asks quietly, “Do you miss the sunlight?” The _real_ sunlight, not these little slivers that make everything look mysterious and magical. When Jim thinks of standing on the edges of his farm and watching the great, yellow star ascend from the horizon, it makes his heart ache. How many times did he look into it as a child, blinding himself and never learning? Vulcan eyes might be stronger, but if he lives in here long, he’s sure his will decay. This isn’t what he wants to be. 

He sighs as he slips lower into the water, still waiting for Spock’s response. A bit lower, and he can rest on the bottom. Eventually, Spock seems to decide, “There is no logic in ‘missing.’”

Immediately, Jim snorts. He should’ve known. “You don’t need to be so... so _Vulcan_. They’re the ones that locked you in here.”

“They are also my people.”

“So am I.” It doesn’t really sink in until after Jim says it. And it doesn’t mean anything. If Spock doesn’t want to miss the sun, Jim’s not sure he wants to break that coping mechanism. So he just sighs, because this isn’t about being _human_ or _Vulcan_ so much as: “We’re both victims.”

Spock almost looks surprised. Tight-lipped, he insists, “I am not.” 

“Yes, you are.”

But Spock shakes his head lightly from side to side. “I am the reason you are here. Therefore, I am your captor.”

Jim snorts again. “Your logic’s flawed. You didn’t bring me here. You don’t even seem to want me here. Hell, if I could walk right out of here, I bet you’d let me.” Somehow, Jim doesn’t doubt it. 

Spock doesn’t deny it. He looks away, first at the water, and then the faded form of his book. He hesitates before he says, “I am not... displeased with your presence. It is simply that it is not fair nor safe for you.” It looks like he wants to say more, but it takes him a moment. Maybe even Vulcans have to search for the right words sometimes. His dark eyes slide back to Jim, and he explains, “Please do not be concerned that you are a burden to me.”

In some way, Jim already knew that. He nods anyway. Spock might be waiting for him to go on, but he doesn’t have much more to say. His eyes sweep over _Spock_ , up close and in the light, and the more they talk the more he can admit that Spock _is_ attractive. Magnetic, in a way, or at least for Jim—not someone he could ever, ever lock away. It still hurts to think about that. The part in Spock’s robes drifts down to his naval, his chest smooth and toned beneath it. Suddenly, it seems strange that Spock’s still dressed, especially in something so symbolic of his own subjugation. If it’s just the two of them, Jim thinks, two full-grown men, there shouldn’t be much need for clothes. 

He lifts his gaze to Spock’s face and half-asks, half-orders, “Join me.” Spock eyes him curiously. 

Spock tells him, “I do not believe I am yet in need of a bath.”

“Then swim with me.” Jim doesn’t want to say ‘please,’ but he will, if he must. There’s no point swimming alone. There’s no point being _strangers_. Not when they seem to coexist so... easily. In here, now, they’re all each other has.

After a moment of consideration, Spock finally nods. He pushes up to his feet, and Jim stares at his full height. They’re probably the same, but Spock seems so much larger than life in this moment, regal and high. He begins to strip away his robe, more practiced and graceful than Jim did. Jim holds his breath without meaning to at every new patch of skin that’s revealed, all flawless, all pale, some tinges of green where Jim might expect pink. Where his sash falls away, a smattering of dark curls houses his cock, long and just as gorgeous as the rest of him. A part of Jim knows he should look away, knows he shouldn’t stare, but he can’t _help_ it. Spock isn’t hard, but the back of Jim’s dirty mind knows that could very easily change. 

He shakes his head when Spock steps up beside him, slipping into the water with none of the splash or hassle Jim had. He dips his head below the surface once, reemerging with his hair slick around his face, his long fingers brushing back his bangs and his broad shoulders glistening with stray rivers. Beads of water cling to his arched eyebrows and drizzle down the rest of his face, over the curve of his nose, down and around his plush lips, hooking and dripping from his chin. There’s something about those _ears_ in particular that Jim finds fascinating. He never liked Vulcan ears before, but he’s never seen them up close, never like this, wet and right _there_. Jim could so easily reach out and help Spock tuck sleek, black strands behind them. 

Instead, he waits like a good boy for Spock to turn to him, undeniably handsome, even so bare and vulnerable. Jim’s life was never a dream, but... it was better than what Spock’s had. 

He forces himself to move, to talk, and he wades away from the edge as he decides, “Swim to the end?” Spock nods in return and kicks off from the wall, slipping into an efficient broad stroke that leaves Jim splashed and staring. 

A grin makes its own way onto his face, and he follows. 

It takes a few meters to catch up to Spock, but then they’re neck and neck, and Jim can’t tell if Spock’s trying to go easy on him or not. It’s a considerable distance they scale with speed. They reach the edge, poke out of the water, and Jim shakes his head out, grinning harder as his droplets splatter over Spock’s cheek. He asks breathlessly, “Again?” Spock nods, listens. 

They both kick off from the wall and whirl around, heading to the other side. The natural competitive streak in Jim flares to life, and he pushes himself, tries to outmatch a man he knows is his physical superior, but he has the drive and the will. He reaches the edge first by a millisecond, pops out of the water again and laughs with his own victory. Spock watches him, but, of course, doesn’t laugh. Jim’s not sure if he’s ever seen a Vulcan smile. 

That _matters_ more with Spock than he can explain, but he doesn’t expect to crack through a lifetime of solitude with one round of swimming. ...Not that he’s even trying to crack through it, but...

Sinking back down in the water, Jim sighs and wades aimlessly, taking a moment for his heart rate to retract. It’s a good length, this fountain, and Spock is a good opponent, even if he doesn’t know they’re racing. Another breath, and Jim nods at the wall of carvings, more out of a desire to talk than any real curiosity. “What do they mean?”

“Vulcan history,” Spock tells him, not in the least bit breathless. “But they were written long ago, and Vulcan has a very... dark... past.”

Jim snorts—the usual response to Vulcan nonsense. “They lock their sons up in mountains for being different. They have a dark present.”

Spock merely looks at him, and for a moment, Jim wonders if he should stop bringing that up, if it’s salt in a wound Spock won’t even acknowledge having. 

To lighten the dark, Jim asks, “Go again?”


	6. ~

They’re growing a little bit of stubble. Spock has a razor from the same room as the books—a collection of old, ratty things from when monks must’ve lived here. Or things left for Spock; Jim doesn’t know. He doesn’t ask. He just sits by the waters edge and lets Spock carefully shave him. If he’s going to die here anyway, he doesn’t really see how it matters if he has a beard or not, but Spock shaved his, so Jim might as well too. Jim’s never seen a Vulcan with facial hair. For himself, it doesn’t make any difference. 

Spock’s fingers are careful, smooth on his face. The blade’s sharp, but Spock’s precise, seems to know exactly what he’s doing, and Jim watches the little bit of stubble disappear under Spock’s attentions. His reflection is murky, but it’s something. There’s no soap to use, but the water helps. When Spock’s done, he runs the back of his hand over Jim’s jaw, and Jim shivers at the touch. He asks quietly, “Do I look better?”

And Spock replies, “You are handsome either way.” Jim tries to keep his grin in check. 

Then they’re done, and Spock takes him to the garden, Jim still gingerly touching his smooth-again chin. They step out of the crack in the wall, and though Jim asked to see this, he still didn’t quite expect it. 

They’re on a high platform, a set of stair-like stones jutting out of the wall to lead down to the field. The center of the chamber is carved out like some private farm. The grass is thick, the trees ancient and knotted, foliage and flowers and general flora growing every which way. It’s messy, crude, but beautiful, and the shimmer of light above casts an eerie glow over millions of little leaves. How anything so grand could grow in such darkness, Jim couldn’t begin to fathom. He practically runs down the stairs, wanting to feel the grass beneath his feet. 

He gets there, and it’s moist. _Moist_. Soft, squishy, warm and wonderful. Jim turns to wait for Spock, still meandering down the stairs. Their hands interlock when they’re close enough, and Spock slowly guides Jim across the open clearing. 

A few of the trees bear fruit, a few of the hedges. As they near a tangle of bushes, Spock plucks free a blue sphere the size of an apple, passing it to Jim. It feels like a far-too-big blueberry in his hands. He smiles at Spock in thanks and bites into it, instantly enjoying the taste. It tastes like a blueberry, but sweeter, better. The skin catches in his teeth, and he has to spend a few seconds sending his tongue after little shreds, then licking the blue mess off his lips. Beside him, Spock eats more neatly. 

Jim can’t help but say, “It’s like our own little garden of Eden.” Though Spock simply looks at him curiously, he adds with a laugh, “I suppose you’re my Eve—giving me strange apples.”

“They are not apples,” Spock predictably says around his bite. Jim just laughs; he expected a response like that. He finishes his own fruit and licks his fingers clean, sucking each digit into his mouth. Maybe they shouldn’t have bothered with their robes—they’ll probably get juice on them. They’ve seen each other naked anyway, and it’s warm enough; why bother?

But in another way, they need them. It’s hard enough not to look at Spock without him being naked, now that Jim’s forgiven him—no, realized there’s nothing to forgive. As far as company for a doomed fate goes, Spock isn’t bad. Spock sticks and fits to Jim’s side like he belongs there, and he reaches for Jim’s hand again. It’s a little sticky, but Jim’s is still moist with spit. He entertains a split-second daydream of licking Spock’s hand clean too. 

Spock guides him through a path of sorts, the trees placed haphazardly on either side but the roots conveniently out of the way. There are no bugs underfoot, none in the trees, no animals darting about. What animals would live in a mountain, though, Jim has no idea. 

He asks, “Are there any animals here that we can eat?”

Spock looks at him oddly and says, “Vulcans do not eat animals.” Jim feels vaguely chastised. He almost apologizes, but his mouth closes again. 

The end of the little path opens into a smaller clearing, something ringed by trees and twisted vines, a large rock serving as a makeshift bench. Spock moves to take a seat on it, and Jim joins him, leaning back and stretching. It’s magical, this place, but he can’t help but wonder what it would look like in the sun. Properly lit, it would probably take his breath away. He always did enjoy alien sights. 

He didn’t ever mean like this, though. He wonders distantly what Spock wanted to be as a child, but then, if he were always here, it probably wouldn’t have been logical to ponder impossibilities. It’s a new level of sadness to think about. But then, maybe it would be less painful, growing up without that disappointment. When he was young, Jim realized quickly that his exploration couldn’t happen; the only way off Earth is Starfleet, and that’s all Vulcan protocol. Vulcan has other sorts of ships that leave—colonies and science vessels, not militant, not overrun—but how would he ever get to Vulcan? And he never thought he would want to. Now... now it’s an ironic fate; he’s trapped here and has even less freedom. 

He’s so busy being sullen over memories that he doesn’t see Spock’s hand coming, the fingers gently brushing a stray strand away from his face. When he looks sideways, that hand’s already falling. For a moment, their eyes just connect, linger. 

Then Spock looks away as though he’s been caught, and he breathes, “Although I still wish that you had your freedom, I... your presence is... pleasurable.” He glances at Jim again and, through the thick Vulcan mask of _nothing_ , he might look a little sheepish, a little hopeful. Jim’s getting better at reading him. 

Jim sighs, “It must’ve been hard for you. Alone all these years.” He shifts his hand to Spock’s knee, squeezing through the rich fabric of his robe. “I know you probably don’t want to admit to being lonely, but... I don’t know. I couldn’t do it.”

“You could.” Jim lifts an eyebrow, not sure how Spock could know; Jim’s always been a social creature. Spock insists, “I have observed you, and you are strong.” Jim snorts. Not _this_ strong.

It’s hard to say it, but for Spock’s sake, Jim does. “In a way, I’m... I’m glad to be here. For your sake.” And he means it. It feels like the right time to take his hand away, but he doesn’t, leaves it hovering over Spock’s leg. 

After a moment, Spock’s hand lands atop it. He lightly squeezes Jim’s fingers, and Jim, feeling too warm in the humid air, smiles sadly. When he looks into Spock’s eyes, he doesn’t have to ask. He _knows_ that Spock would leave if he could, but can’t, never even bothered to consider it, knew it was an impossibility and didn’t ponder after painful daydreams. Or now, at least. Maybe when he was much younger, a child, still learning the discipline of logic, he beat at the walls and longed for the sun. But that hurts too much to think about, so Jim just flips his hand over to squeeze Spock’s back, his small way of saying: _I’m here._

The moment’s so perfect. Jim opens his mouth to coax out more of Spock’s voice, it doesn’t really matter how, but Spock suddenly flinches, his hand shooting free of Jim’s to cup his own face. The next wince is almost violent, and his eyebrows stay knit together, clearly in pain. He doubles over, clutching his stomach and his head, and Jim doesn’t know what to do, wants to hold him. “Spock...” Spock hisses in more pain, doesn’t answer. 

“Spock?” But Jim _knows_ ; the realization comes with a cold twinge down his spine. “It’s pon farr, isn’t it?” he asks bitterly. “It’s starting...”

Spock snarls, “Leave me.” It’s so uncharacteristic of him; he’s always so gentle, but here he drops his hand to glare, dark eyes on fire. Jim’s breath catches. “Leave me!”

It takes Jim a second to say, “No.” He doesn’t want to. He can’t leave Spock alone with this pain—he reaches to hold Spock’s shoulders, but Spock shoves him away hard enough to topple him from the rock. 

“Go!” Spock growls. For a moment, it looks like he’ll lunge from the stone to attack, but Jim knows that Spock’s sending him away for his own good, to protect him, and he doesn’t need that, won’t leave—but Spock roars, “Leave me!” so loud that Jim has to cup his hands over his ears. 

Spock tumbles to the grass floor, curling in on himself and hissing, snarling, fingers knotting in the ground like feral claws. Jim takes a step back but still doesn’t want to go. 

Then Spock throws his head to the side and howls, “GO!” It echoes off the ceiling, off the walls of the cave, an _order_ Jim can’t disobey. He knows this is a private moment, and he knows he can’t help. He still doesn’t want to leave, but he...

He backs up and takes off down the path, back out into the clearing and up the stone stairs. At the top of them, he looks back, but he can’t see Spock through the trees. He thinks he can hear faint whimpering and cries of agony, but it sounds as much from his own head as it does from below. 

With a wince of his own, he turns through the door. 

He stands against the other side and hates himself for running. He feels more helpless than he ever has. He slumps to the floor and holds his knees against his chest, waiting restlessly for Spock to join him. 

It’s the first time they’ve been apart, and he _hates_ it.


	7. ~

Jim’s more careful now. He’s watching for it. But Spock is fine, or at least, as stony as ever, as any Vulcan pretending they know no weakness. They eat and drink and swim and lie about in peace, and Jim grows tired of wearing his robes. When the night comes, it’s too hot in the fur, and he and Spock settle down, naked, close to the middle of the slightly concave floor. The slant is almost too small to be noticeable, and it wouldn’t make him roll in, but when he lies around and just _soaks in_ the scenery, it feels like it’s pushing them together. 

The light is dying. The stars must be faint above; it’s just a pale blue that ghosts over Spock’s skin. He lies on his side, his back awash in the thin glow and just as beautiful as always. He’s as tall as Jim is, but he feels taller; he’s thinner, still toned but lithe, tight in posture even during rest. Jim wonders absently why they always sleep so far apart. 

Jim mumbles, just to check if Spock’s still awake, “Spock?”

And Spock glances over his shoulder, eyelids heavy as he responds, “Jim.” Jim just grins back: reassurance, nothing more. Spock seems to know. Spock turns back around, dark hair mixing with the lighter browns of the furs. Jim tries to keep his eyes on the back of Spock’s head and not lower down. He wonders if Spock’s grown used to a lack of pillows, or if he just never had them at all. Jim uses his arm. 

He could reach out and offer his other one to Spock, or he could lie on Spock’s, drape over each other like proper bedding. It’d be more comfortable, he thinks, but then, Spock doesn’t seem to pay much mind to comfort. 

He’s taken care of Jim, though. Maybe that would be different. 

He rolls onto his side slowly, but his eyes are still closed. Jim looks at them, at his relaxed face, at the lines of his chest, lower. Sucking in a breath, Jim forces himself to close his eyes. Tomorrow’s another day. Maybe they can look for an escape, then, together. 

A few seconds later, his eyes slide open again, because _something_ is telling them to. He glances blurrily at Spock, whose expression is now tenser. He’s curled in, and he begins to shake, just tiny, light shivers at first, then great, hulking things that make his forehead bead with sweat. Jim shuffles closer, reaching out a hand, and Spock rolls onto his back, arching up and parting his lips to gasp. His eyes stay closed. The tremours wrack his body and his hands fly to his face. He whimpers, _whines_ , a terrible, heart wrenching sound that no man, no _Vulcan_ should ever make. 

Jim’s already sidled up to him, lifting up to reach for his shoulders and call, “Spock.”

But it’s no good. Spock’s fingers slide back, fisting in his own hair, and he contorts in Jim’s grasp as he growls, “No, do not... do not touch me...” But Jim’s grip only tightens; he won’t let go. Spock looks in so much _pain_ , and Jim’s mouth goes dry. He said he wouldn’t... but he _knows_ he can ease that pain. 

In an inexplicable moment of emotion, Jim’s seized by a desire to _have_ Spock. He could fuck Spock first. He wouldn’t be a slave then, would he, if he did it on his own, in his own way? But he knows it wouldn’t work like that—the _pon farr_ would take over, and Jim would be torn apart beneath that Vulcan strength; his words would fall on an animal’s ears. It’s hard to imagine. He has a helpless, handsome man lying in his arms, and he leans down, hand sliding to cup Spock’s cheek, thumb stroking it gently. He makes a soothing noise that he knows won’t work. Their lips are so close. Maybe just one kiss to...

But Spock doesn’t want him, doesn’t see him this way; Spock has no control over what’s happening. And that makes Jim stop. He was told ‘no.’ He has to respect that. He buries his face in the side of Spock’s instead, relinquishing an awkward, tight hug. Spock’s arms fly to hold him back. They wrap around him roughly, hold him fiercely, clinging to him for dear life. Spock’s body is like a furnace, skin on slow broil, but Jim can’t let go, wouldn’t if he could. He gives into the heat and pets the back of Spock’s hair, murmurs, “Shh, it’s okay... I’ve got you...” And he desperately hopes that this is like the first time; that it’ll dissipate into nothing.

For a few lingering, boiling moments, it seems okay. Spock’s death grip is relentless, but the shivers weaken, and his pants work into something more like breathing, something better. Spock’s head nuzzles against Jim’s in the strange embrace, and Jim tries to press back, just being _there_. For now, it’s all he can do. 

And then he’s thrown to the side so suddenly that there isn’t even time to scream. His back hits the floor, and Spock’s rolled them over, landed right on top of him, legs to either side of his and hands grabbing his wrists. Spock’s feet are hooked over his ankles. Spock’s crotch is sitting right over his. Jim’s stunned into silence, staring up at the dilated eyes of his Vulcan. 

Spock looks at Jim. His gaze darts and lingers everywhere, just taking in, and he’s breathing hard again, but he doesn’t look quite _crazed_ , not as insane as he could. Jim could, perhaps, throw him off. But Jim lies still, the furs warm and soft beneath him and the limited light casting a sliver of a halo around all Spock’s edges. In the stalemate, he licks his lips and whispers, “Spock...”

And Spock surges down, mouth crashing into Jim’s jaw—his head jolts to the side, Spock’s teeth scraping over the skin. Spock’s tongue traces over it, soft and wet and making Jim shiver—then Spock’s hips rock into Jim’s and Jim _moans_ , traitorous hips thrusting back as Spock’s dick slides over his own shaft. Another roll and they’re trapped together, held close between their two bodies, rubbing dryly against one another with each tiny movement of Spock’s body. Jim’s eyes nearly roll back in his head, overcome as Spock attacks his neck and cock. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knows that he should protest. But it feels so _good_. It’s been a long time since a handsome man has pinned him down in bed, and he’s never had _anyone_ like _Spock_...

There’s something so bizarrely intimate about the way Spock’s mouth works along his face. It never strays to his own lips, but it nips and sucks and licks his cheek and all along his chin, ducking below to savour his throat, sucking on his adam’s apple while it bobs too quickly. Spock’s hips keep moving, grinding them together. He can feel just how _long_ Spock is, how hard. He can’t help it; he stirs under the stimulation, blood filling in and making him rise, twitch against Spock’s, delighting in being rubbed together. Spock kisses back up to his other cheek and nips at the shell of his round ear, nuzzling into his face and breathing in. Jim can smell _Spock_ in the air, raw and musky, with the twist of their arousal. When Jim tilts his body just right, his nipples brush against Spock’s, pebbled and erect. Jim has half a mind to slide down and lick them, suck them into his mouth and show Spock _real pleasure_ , but he’s held too firmly to the ground. He wants to kiss Spock’s mouth, but Spock avoids it, controlling everything. Spock licks up the side of Jim’s face like a dog, and Jim shivers in lewd wonderment. He could get used to Spock like this. 

He feels instantly bad for thinking it. This isn’t _Spock_. He tries to mumble, “Spock, stop—” but he cuts off in another moan as Spock stops humping him to just slide against him instead, constant contact and too much friction. Spock sets to work just below his chin, forcing Jim’s head back, skull digging into the furs as his body’s used and taken. The strength in Spock’s fingers is incredible—Jim knows he couldn’t move even if he wanted to. He doesn’t really want to. He groans pathetically while Spock ruts their hard cocks together over and over again. 

Shamefully, Jim can’t take it. He comes first with a humiliating cry, tensing in Spock’s arms as his cock spurts between them from nothing more than being slid along. It’s wonderful, _wonderful_ ; his mind goes blank, and he throws his body into Spock’s with complete abandon. Spock stops marking his neck to lean against him, their foreheads pressed together. There’s a _connection_ Jim can’t explain, and it’s nothing but sheer, mortifying bliss. 

Spock follows not long after. A few more furious thrusts of his hips, and he’s covering Jim’s body in hot Vulcan cum. Jim shivers anew when he feels it hit his stomach, his chest, slicking along and sticking to his skin, taking the impossible, blistering heat one notch higher. Spock’s forehead stays pressed to Jim’s, eyes closed, and shudders wrack his whole body worse than when this first started. 

All at once, Spock comes undone. 

He comes spiraling down with a cry, hands sliding from Jim’s, lying useless to either side. He goes limp, heavy, still shivering and sticky and hot. His eyes open to mere slits, and Jim can see through them that Spock’s coming down, reached critical and spilled over, finds himself stripped bare again. Jim lifts one weak arm to hold him, let him know that it’s alright. 

Spock mutters, “I am sorry.” His head falls to the side, ear against Jim’s cheek, and he repeats, “I am so sorry, so sorry.”

He falls into a mantra of it, apology after apology, clinging to Jim and begging for forgiveness, while Jim just pets him and holds him and mumbles, “It’s okay.” Or as okay as it could be. 

“I should not have—I am sorry—I—I—”

But Jim doesn’t need to hear it. “It’s not your fault.” He knows it’s not. Once upon a time, he would’ve burned with anger, but... he enjoyed that more than he should’ve, and more so, he offered it by staying. Knew he could’ve, should’ve left. He should apologize. He came too. Instead, he just supports Spock’s weight and kisses the side of Spock’s face like a parent soothing a child. Spock continues to shake and apologize, but slowly, very slowly, both die out into the whispers of the weary. 

Eventually, Spock falls asleep in Jim’s arms, more vulnerable and soft than anyone Jim’s ever known.


	8. ~

In the morning, Jim finds himself on his side, Spock curled in his arms, head against his chest. He lets himself wander in that pleasant in-and-out phase, dreams and reality mingling. His fingers stroke softly through Spock’s hair. The stench of sex is still thick around them, but Jim doesn’t mind. It’s all warm, very warm, and the morning light is so thin that Jim could drift right back off. Instead, he keeps himself at least half awake, knowing Spock could need him at any moment. 

Spock comes to about half an hour later, groggily and stretching out. Jim has to let him go. Jim mumbles, “Sleep well?”

Spock looks at him, eyes suddenly flickering to sadness, lips twisting into an ever-present frown. He repeats for what feels like the thousandth time, “I am sorry.”

But Jim just rolls his eyes and says, “Stop it. It’s not your fault, and I’m fine.”

“Disagreements on those points aside, I am nonetheless—”

“Spock, stop it.”

So Spock closes his mouth. His eyes say what his mouth can’t, and Jim pushes out of their bed, the mood broken.

They’ve got a few fruits left over from yesterday that they share, sitting in silence at the edge of the furs. They don’t bother slipping their robes back on, and neither mentions the sticky, crusted messes across their stomachs. They relieve themselves in the designated chamber and drink, stretch and look at one another, and Jim finally suggests, “We should clean off.” Spock just nods, so Jim slips their fingers together. 

He knows the way by now; he’s always been good with directions. He leads the way to one of the fountains, the larger one with slowly moving water, slipping inside quieter than the first time. Spock follows more gracefully, until they’re both submersed in the cool water, wading in place. Jim runs his hands over his chest, then reaches out for Spock’s, chipping and rubbing away at the mess he helped create. Spock sucks in a breath but doesn’t protest to the touch. Jim’s ministrations push him back until he’s against the side of the fountain, on the tips of his toes, and Jim’s the same, all his concentration on making Spock’s front smooth again. When he’s finally done, he presses his palm flat over Spock’s navel and brings it slowly up, fingers splaying over everything, while Spock shivers and looks away. Clean again. Jim lingers too long before pulling back to work on himself, wishing Spock would help. 

He doesn’t step away, and Spock doesn’t leave, just stands with his back to the wall, head just above the water. The water’s perfectly clear, but the light’s too dim to see much through it. When Jim thinks he’s as clean as he’ll get, he grins and says, “There, good as new.”

Spock repeats quietly, “I am sorry.” And Jim just sighs, shoulders slumping as he _stares_ at Spock, trying to convey just how much he doesn’t need that. 

Using a wet hand to swipe back through his hair, getting it damp, Jim grumbles, “It’s terrible of them to do this to you. I don’t understand how you can’t see that.”

Without missing a beat, Spock says as though reciting from a textbook, “It is necessary for their safety.”

“Well, it’s not fair. You should at least get to pick who you want.” He steps closer when he says it, doesn’t know why, can’t help it, just puts himself right in Spock’s space. Even though he’s saying Spock should choose. The water can rinse away the musky smell of their dried cum, but it can’t do anything about the raw scent of _Spock_. The way the water reflects just little glimmers of the overhead light gives Spock an ethereal glow around the surface. 

Spock doesn’t answer. His bow lips are tight, and then he licks them absently—a habit, Jim’s sure, only occurring during pon farr. A part of Jim knows what he’s doing isn’t fair—he’s shoving himself in front of a man on sexual overdrive. But he can’t bring himself to pull away and knows Spock _needs_ it. 

Spock tilts his head, lashes lowering halfway, and after a second, his lips part. His eyes fall closed the rest of the way. He leans in that small distance, all it takes, and Jim presses back with too much fervor. 

His hand shoots out of the water, splashing both their chins, and he grabs at Spock’s head, pulling Spock in as they kiss, pressed tightly together. Spock’s lips are soft, moist, warm, just what Jim knew they’d be, better than he thought, just what he wanted last night, wants now. His head thins when it comes to Spock, grows cloudy: all proverbial butterflies. He knows it’s too soon and doesn’t care. 

Maybe Spock’s pheromones are getting to him. Maybe he really is _too_ loose, like his friends always said, though he didn’t think that possible. Maybe he just knows a good thing when he sees it—Spock kisses him somehow both tentatively and firm, careful but insistent. Spock’s hand lifts to Jim’s arm and squeezes too tight. 

Jim breaks away with a sharp hiss, and Spock’s immediately muttering, “Sorry. Sorry.” He kisses Jim’s cheek, then jerks back. He stands stiff, still. Jim’s hand is still in the back of Spock’s hair. He pets it in reassurance. 

Spock’s eyes squeeze tightly shut. He growls under his breath, bitter and harsh, “I want you _so much_ , but I... I do not wish to hurt you...”

“You don’t,” Jim insists, even with the sting of Spock’s iron grip still prickling along his skin. His pulse quickens as much from the confession as from the kiss. “Spock, you said yourself that I’m strong—I can handle it.”

Spock shakes his head vigorously. “I... I am having trouble holding back...”

Jim’s other hand comes up, cupping Spock’s face, wet thumb streaking water across his cheek. “So don’t hold back. Just because those assholes put us here doesn’t mean we can’t make the most of it. Spock, I’m _willing_.” He surprises himself with just how much he _means_ that. Whether Spock truly is or not, Jim can’t know, but he _does_ know Spock will die otherwise, and... and he’s not sure how he would’ve justified that before, but he couldn’t now. Even if he didn’t feel this bizarre, burning connection, he would give in just to have Spock live. But Spock’s hands slip around his wrists, pulling him away. 

Spock looks him in the eye and insists, breathing hard, “We are running out of time. Tomorrow, you must lock me in the cage.”

He doesn’t want to. “Spock, I can’t—”

“You _must_.”

Jim shakes his head. “No, I won’t condemn you to die—”

“Then you would condemn me to a lifetime of misery,” Spock hisses, suddenly so fierce than Jim takes a step back. “You are human; you do not understand. This robs me of what I _am_. The humiliation is already more than I can bear. I would hurt you. I _would_. And that thought destroys me—I could not live with myself knowing what I had done.” As he talks, he steps closer, closer, until Jim’s the one against the other side of the fountain, taking in so much more than what Spock usually says at once. “You say you are willing, but do you know what you are truly consenting to? The mating is for life. You would be bonded to me forever, for the rest of your days. You would be bonded to a _Vulcan_. And whenever you would look at me, you would see the face of your captors, or your rapist, of the beings that took from you your very freedom...”

Jim sucks in a breath, saying, “ _No_ —”

But Spock overrules, “ _Yes_. Jim, you _must_ do this for me. If you care for me like you claim, you will not allow me to corrupt all that I am.” Jim tries to speak, but Spock rolls on, “This is not your choice to make. It is my body, my mind.” Jim’s heart sinks—he can’t deny that. “You must promise me that when the times comes, you will lock me away.”

Jim doesn’t want to promise. He looks away, the steady lap of the water along the rock walls a poor substitute for Spock’s face. Jim’s teeth are grit, breath steeled. There’s no excuse he can find to allow another man to die when something can be done to stop it, but... but if Spock isn’t willing, his own compliance doesn’t mean a thing. He hates losing, _hates_ that it really, truly isn’t his choice.

He really can’t stand Vulcan stubbornness, and for one childish moment, he thinks Spock might be right about being _bonded_ to a Vulcan for forever. But that moment passes quickly, and he feels stupid for even entertaining the thought. Being mated to Spock isn’t nearly as scary an idea as it should be. 

Spock repeats, quieter and voice near begging, “Jim, please.”

Jim scrunches his eyes closed. When he lowers his chin, it hits the water, and he lets it lap away at him while he tries to shut out reality.

“Jim, _promise me._ ”

Jim finally grits out, “I promise.” But it kills him to say it. He wants to take it back and knows he can’t.

Spock seems to relax suddenly, like a great burden has been lifted from his shoulders. 

It’s just been placed onto Jim’s.


	9. ~

Today, it’s rough. 

It isn’t the sunlight that wakes Jim, the natural end of a dream, nor a gnawing hunger or thirst. It’s strong arms around his stomach and teeth grazing the sensitive skin behind his ear, a warm body all against his back. Spock’s melded into him, fitting perfectly, spooning him like they’re excited newlyweds. 

At first, through the haze of sleep, Jim’s pleased. He’s already half-hard, and the stimulation grows both better and worse as Spock grinds into him, long, thick Vulcan cock pressing between the cheeks of his ass. It makes Jim lean back into the touch, makes him croon and stretch languidly, melting into Spock’s warm, passionate embrace.

But then reality slowly seeps back in, forming a hard pit in his stomach. He made a promise. And this isn’t _Spock_. It looks and feels, _feels inside and out_ like Spock, but there is no free will. That’s an important distinction. Jim sighs, sending the little shards of fur in front of his face scattering backwards. 

He puts one hand over Spock’s, clawed at his hip, and murmurs, “Spock, stop it.”

Spock growls next to his ear, nips at it and thrusts hard into his ass; Jim gasps. Maybe his lack of conviction made it impossible to get through. Spock splays a hand over his stomach, fingers parted around his cock, holding him in while Spock ruts against him from behind. Jim’s protest dies somewhere in his throat. Spock’s back to biting and kissing his neck, stopping to lick and suck in between. Spock’s other hand slides up his chest and begins to pluck at his nipples, light, little teasing touches, then sharp tugs that make him moan. Spock caresses him all over, touches his throat, his thighs, back to his nipples and crotch, relentless and _hungry_. Jim feels vaguely like a helpless animal on some barbarian’s plate. 

Then he’s rolled over onto his stomach, face pressed against the ground while Spock humps him wildly. A part of Jim wants to just reach back and grab his cheeks, hold them apart and invite Spock’s huge cock to fill his little hole. But the rest of him knows he can’t do that. It’s not his choice. His cock and head battle each other while Spock devours him, and finally he reaches back, grasping blindly for Spock’s hip. He tries to resist rubbing himself shamelessly into the fur, and he’s panting while he says, “Spock... Spock, no...” _Down, boy._ Like commanding a dog. Spock’s mouth stills on the back of his neck. 

Spock’s head drops beside his, cheek pressing into his. Jim presses back. Sometimes, he thinks Spock might be able to sense him through both their skulls, and right now is one of those times. Alone and in the faded early light, something intimate and unspoken passes between them, something that even Jim doesn’t know. He wants to beg Spock to take him, to end it now, but he also wants to protect Spock from being something he doesn’t want. All Jim can muster is a weak, “I’m here...” Here for Spock, however Spock needs him. 

He doesn’t quite know which outcome he’s hoping for. Spock takes a moment, then finally, with a final thrust that makes Jim groan too loud, hisses, “You must cage me now.” He rolls off suddenly, leaving Jim’s back empty and cold. 

Jim takes his own moment to get his bearings. Then he rolls over, pecks Spock’s cheek, and forces himself to whisper, “Okay.” Selfishly, he falters and adds, “But if you change your mind, I—”

“ _Now,_ ” Spock growls. And Jim knows there is no arguing. 

They’ve grown used to being naked, but Spock still finds his robes, slipping deftly into them. Jim doesn’t miss the way his hands shake around the sash, and once Jim’s in his own, much faster, he helps Spock dress. He tries not to look at Spock’s face—too tempting. Spock chases a kiss to him; Jim gives in—then Spock jerks back, nostrils flaring. They don’t have any fruit left, but Jim makes him drink, makes him relieve himself, squeezes his hand and promises to bring food. When Spock’s lips part, Jim knows what they’re going to say: no use feeding the dead. But Jim won’t let it come to that. He’ll think of something else, and if he has to, he’ll... he’ll...

Jim guides Spock to the central chamber, the one he was left in, the giant, empty, bitter place where his whole life changed. He has to lead, because Spock’s steps are faltering and difficult. They should’ve brought the cage closer. It’s too heavy to carry by himself, and it’s too late now, but they should’ve thought of it before and brought it to their bedroom. Or to the garden. As they walk to the steps, Jim’s breath holds. _He doesn’t want to do this._

They hit the stairs and Spock walks out in front of Jim, scaling them on his own. He says without looking back, “Thank you. You may leave.”

Jim bottles his acidic snort. Not a chance of that. He follows Spock up the steps, follows Spock to the cage, sitting under the faint light in the center. The key is still on the floor beside it, and just looking at it makes Jim claustrophobic. Vulcan steel—it should hold. But... Jim will hold onto the key. 

With it right behind him, Spock turns to look at him, pausing and at a loss for words. Jim can see the desire to say something on his face, the plain desire. Jim wants to hug him close, hold him like he deserves to be held, but Jim knows it would be too dangerous to get that close again. Instead, he holds his hand up, parting his fingers in the way he knows Vulcans do. 

Spock silently lifts his hand back, pressing them tightly together. Spock’s skin is too hot, feverish. Jim doesn’t have the words. He looks away.

He’d stall forever if he could, but none of this is up to him. Spock’s fingers slide away, leaving the slow prickle of recent touch. He lowers to his knees and crawls inside the cage, turning to sit within it, facing Jim, legs crossed. He closes the door himself and sucks in a breath, then says, so much stronger than Jim feels, “Lock the door and leave the key where I cannot find it.” Jim winces and ignores the second half. He’ll keep it with him. 

The floor below is artificially smooth but too stiff beneath his knees, hard and uncomfortable even through his robes. Jim puts the key in the lock and turns it, wanting it not to work, but it clicks into place, sealing up as effectively as any particle barrier. For now, he slips the key into his robes. It lands against his waist, pinned to his skin by the sash: a cold reminder. Then he leans his head against the bars, fingers wrapping around them. This is cruel. 

A light kiss is pressed to his forehead, then to his nose. Jim looks up in time to press into the final one, right over his lips. He returns it as best he can, though the bars dig into his cheeks and keep them apart. He could stick an arm through them but no more. He tells Spock in a low whisper, “I’ll be right here.”

“Jim,” Spock tries, protesting right away, but Jim cuts him off. 

“No. You made me lock you up; you can’t make me do any more than that. I’m staying here.” He reaches through the bars to squeeze Spock’s knee. Spock shuts his eyes and doesn’t fight. Jim promises, though he knows it’s empty and useless and he _hates that_ , “I won’t let you die.”

Spock’s head shakes. “I will not. I will... I will attempt meditation.”

Jim’s laugh is weak, humourless. He’s heard that before. “That never works.”

“It is said to.”

“Vulcans say a lot of things.” When Spock glances up, his eyes are suddenly stern, but Jim just stares back. He’s grown up under the Vulcan thumb. He might not know nearly as much about _pon farr_ as Spock, but he know he’s not the first to laugh at the meditation substitute. Maybe it’s _possible_ , but he’s only ever heard of it failing. 

Still, he knows Spock needs to try, and he does concede with a sigh, “Sorry.” He nods encouragingly, though he doesn’t feel it, and forces himself to say, “Good luck.” Even if Vulcans don’t believe in such things, Spock will need it. 

Spock softens again to say, “You should not be here...”

“I won’t leave.” He licks his lips and repeats, stronger. “I won’t leave. When you sleep, I’ll fetch you food and water, but when you wake, I’ll be right here.” His hand is still through the bars, holding onto Spock however he can. He isn’t going anywhere.

Spock finally gives up. He reaches for Jim’s hand, grip shaky as he lifts Jim’s wrist, bringing it to his mouth. He kisses the back of Jim’s hand like a gentleman from an old Terran movie, and he pushes it out through the bars. Then he straightens, rearranging his robe, and his head lifts, posture seeming to relax, eyes slipping shut. Jim tries to be quiet, sitting back, not wanting to interrupt. 

But he stays within arm’s reach of the cage, key in check. He isn’t going anywhere.


	10. ~

When Jim returns from the gardens, he thinks Spock still might be asleep. Curled in the tight confines of the cage, Spock’s head is buried in his arms, body shuddering violently. Then he _howls_ in pain, and though his own arms muffle the sound, it tears right at Jim’s heart. 

Jim murmurs, “Spock,” as soon as he’s close enough to say it without it echoing. Spock’s head jerks up, eyes wide and animal, focusing in on Jim and squinting through the darkness. His pupils are almost entirely dilated, lips wet as he licks them, parting again, breathing hard. He shifts up to sit, robes slipping around him, a pool of worn fabric and long limbs. Jim kneels before the cage with the bowl in his hands, asking, “Are you hungry?”

Spock nods and gulps. It looks like he wants to roar. His expression says: _ravenous._ But Jim knows what for, and he can’t give that. It’s past the point where Spock’s consent would help—it wouldn’t really be _consent_. When Jim looks into Spock’s eyes, he knows the madness has taken over. It makes his chest hurt. 

Still, he presses a small, plum-like fruit through the bars. Spock reaches for it, but his fingers tremble too much to grasp it, and it tumbles out of them. He plucks it from his robes, drops it again, and winds up throwing it in frustration—it splatters along the steps, oozing out purple juice. Jim ignores the aggressive behaviour. 

He takes another and holds it up, keeps it there, pressed just inside. For a moment, Spock hesitates, then surges forward, mouth open. His teeth sink into the flesh of the fruit, spilling copious amounts of liquid down his chin, but he doesn’t stop it. He rips into it, sucking and biting and barely stopping to swallow in between. His teeth graze Jim’s fingers too often, and when the fruit’s gone, he still sucks at them, licks at them, and Jim’s hard pressed to bring his hand away. Instead, he reaches further in to wipe the juice from Spock’s chin. He tenderly cleans Spock off with his own thumb, and after, Spock bends to lick it clean again. Spock’s tongue is long, ripe with texture, slick and soft. It makes Jim shiver to feel it, but in a very good way that has him lingering longer than he should. He wants to lunge through and press their mouths together. 

Instead, he gets another fruit and feeds Spock the same way. It’s the same kind. Spock’s just as messy, just as fervent, taking to Jim’s fingers more than the food itself. Then he’s cleaning Spock again, and Spock makes it nearly impossible. He keeps trying to move his head to lick Jim’s hand, but Jim hasn’t got it all off yet—it’s sort of like trying to pet a kitten that keeps trying to paw at his hand. Finally, he has to reach through with his other hand, grabbing at Spock’s hair and holding his head back. Mouth wide, Spock stays where Jim holds him while Jim tidies up his cheek and jaw. As soon as Jim releases him, Spock’s all tongue again. 

Jim’s about to get an apple when Spock jerks through the bars, yanking at the front of Jim’s robes. He’s slammed into the front of the cage, and Spock is feverishly trying to kiss him through it, tongue extended to lave all up his neck. Jim grunts in surprise and takes a minute to get his bearings, then sucks in a breath at the treatment. It feels good, so _good_ to have Spock’s mouth on him, and he doesn’t want to pull away. 

But he has to. He jerks back, breathing hard and insisting, “Spock, I... I made a promise.”

“Want you,” Spock snarls. “Jim, I _want_ you.” The intensity behind the words is almost frightening. He presses against the bars, moans filthy and deep, then whines, “Jim, please. _Please_ , you are so... so beautiful, I... I would be a good mate to you. I would. I would make you feel good, take care of you, be yours, if only you would let me out of this wretched box...”

“No,” Jim repeats, ashamed at how useless he sounds. Spock growls like he _knows_. Jim can still feel the key pinned to his skin, and he wants to open that cage more than anything. Spock doesn’t reach through again, but he looks at Jim with a heart wrenching mixture of desire and desperation. Jim’s caught in the horrible position of it being painful to look but impossible to look away. 

Spock shudders and hangs his head. He presses it against the bars, whimpering again, hurt so very badly. Jim can’t take this. 

He licks his lips and suggests, trying to distract, anything, “Spock, you... you need to meditate...”

“There is no point,” Spock snarls without looking. “What good is it when I could have _you_? You smell like you should be mine...”

“Concentrate.” Jim’s voice is shaking. “You have to try. Try to meditate. It can be done; you said so yourself. I thought Vulcans couldn’t lie.”

“I want you.” Spock’s head jerks up, defying Jim to say otherwise.

Jim laughs hollowly. “That doesn’t count, not like this...” He shakes his head. “If you can just... hold on a little longer. If you get through this, and you still want me... I promise you can have me. You can have another _seven years_ of me. You just... have to make it through the next few days. Seven years, Spock.”

“Seven years of living in a giant gilded cage,” Spock growls bitterly. His eyes dart up, lit by the thin rays of light. It is a cage. But Jim didn’t know Spock saw it that way. Maybe it’s the _pon farr_ talking. It’s true. 

Eyeing the crack in the ceiling, Jim can feel his own realization make him cold. He’s had it before, but... somehow, with Spock by his side, he’d almost forgotten. He isn’t meant to be trapped this way. 

He looks back at Spock, and he makes himself be _Jim Kirk_ , the man who doesn’t take no for an answer. He hisses, “Spock,” and Spock looks back at him. 

“We won’t be trapped. We won’t stay here. You need to get through this. Then we’ll find a way out of here. We’ll open the doors or climb the walls, it doesn’t matter; we’ll find some way out.”

For a moment, Spock is silent. He probably doesn’t believe it. Then the trembling worsens, and he whispers, “Together?” 

Jim nods. “You and me.” It’s not a promise he can make, but his eyes say it anyway. One way or another, they’ll find a way. They’re both young, intelligent, strong. Impossible odds have never stopped Jim before. 

Spock nods back. Then he makes a choking sound. His head falls, shakes, and when it lifts again, there are tears lining his gorgeous eyes. Jim’s never seen a Vulcan cry before, and the sight _hurts_ to see. He knows that Spock’s been holding in those tears for a long, long time. 

All at once, Spock seems to crumble. He folds in on himself, thin body wracked with sobs as he goes from feral to vulnerable, breaking right before Jim’s eyes. Jim doesn’t even think about it. He flies closer and throws his arms through the bars, grabbing and pulling Spock towards him. He clings to Spock through the cage, holds him as close as possible, pets his hair and rubs his back and wishes there weren’t rows of metal between them. There shouldn’t be _anything_ between them. Spock’s tears soak through the fabric over Jim’s shoulder, and Jim lets it happen, nuzzling against Spock’s face and taking in the touch and smell as much as he can. It kills him to think he’ll have to let go. 

“I am sorry,” Spock finally manages between sobs. It’s no better than before, useless and on repeat. “I am sorry, I am sorry...”

And Jim just shushes him. “It’s okay.” It’s a lie. Nothing’s okay. But humans can lie freely, and Jim says it all he can. His fingers stroke through Spock’s sweat-matted hair and brush softly over his skull, and Jim turns to press a kiss to Spock’s forehead. “It’s okay...”

Spock reaches to hold him back with unsteady arms. Jim welcomes the touch and whispers, “Don’t ever be sorry. I’m glad I’m here, that this happened to me, because I met you. If nothing else, I had you in my life. I _want_ that, and... I won’t let that go.” The key is burning into him, ringing in his ears until it’s taken over, until all there is is _Spock in his arms_ and the ability to play with fire. 

Jim presses tightly into Spock, the bars digging in but not stopping him. He made a promise. And he’ll do right by Spock. But... but if there’s nothing else...

He has that key. He kisses Spock again and promises, “I’ve got you.”


	11. ~

It’s not as warm without the furs, but it’s warm enough, and Jim’s wrapped up in his robes like a thick quilt. He lies against the bars, curled in on himself with his arms for pillows. 

He’s having a particularly pleasant dream. It isn’t very corporeal, but he has a vague _idea_ of what’s going. He and Spock are up in the stars, housed in some strange vessel that isn’t quite Vulcan, isn’t quite human. They’re sitting across from each other in a grand hall and playing some game—a board game, maybe? And Spock claims one of his pieces, so Jim begins to peel away the odd clothing that doesn’t quite have a shape, just covers his skin. 

Something like _no_ , comes out of Spock’s lips. He’s rising, and then he’s by Jim’s side, slipping into Jim’s chair, right in Jim’s lap, so warm and solid that Jim can’t fathom this not being _real_. Spock’s eyes never leave his while long fingers slip beneath the fabric, sliding over his chest, tracing the hem of his pants. Spock’s going to strip him, he’s sure. Can he strip Spock back? But he hasn’t won their game, and isn’t that what they’re playing? Spock’s hands leave his body. They’re in front of his face, holding up a small, silver object, glittering in the ethereal light of their shared, bright quarters.

Jim mumbles, “ _Key,_ ” and twists, turns, yawns loud in that prickling feeling of surrealism dissolving around him. It’s so dark that for a moment, Jim doesn’t know where he is. Then he makes out the cage beside him, and the thing that really wakes him is a metallic clicking sound. Jim’s eyebrows knit together in confusion; that isn’t right. He pushes up onto his elbows, peering down. 

It’s only a tiny bit of starlight. It gives a faint, blue-green imprint of Spock’s body, moving on hands and knees, crawling up to Jim. Ripped out of sleep, Jim jerks up, but Spock’s already out of the cage. His robe is slipping down his shoulders, and he comes right up to Jim, doesn’t stop, moves himself into Jim’s lap and leans in. Jim tries to turn his head away, but Spock grabs his hair and holds him still, brings their mouths together. Jim’s gasp dies on his tongue as he’s swallowed up by the intensity of Spock’s kiss, the next one just around the corner. 

Even when Jim manages to move his startled body, it isn’t enough to _do_ anything. He pushes at Spock’s chest, half just feeling that this is _real_ , but Spock’s relentless. Spock’s arms curl around Jim’s body, tongue tracing all of Jim’s mouth, head moving and body grinding into him. Jim moves with it. He can’t help it. By the time Spock lets his mouth go, he’s gasping for breath.

He’s clinging to Spock’s robes, and he murmurs, “You... you didn’t want to...”

“I was a fool,” Spock whispers. His hands have made their way down to Jim’s sash, and Jim can’t bring himself to stop them from deftly untying it. Spock kisses Jim’s cheek, his jaw, pushes his robes open and hisses, “I want you very, very much.”

Jim weakly manages, “Want you too.” Spock pulls the material away from his shoulders and jerks him in, going in to lick and nip at Jim’s neck. Jim _groans_. He knows he should fight more, knows this doesn’t count, but...

He sucks in a breath and shoves at Spock’s stomach, but Spock doesn’t so much as budge, just growls and thrusts into him, nearly knocking him over. He’s pinned so tightly to Spock’s body that there is no choice. He couldn’t run, even if Spock wanted him to. Even if he should. When Spock’s kisses make their way back around towards Jim’s lips, he moves away long enough to mumble, “You can’t hate me after this.”

“You are my mate,” Spock tells him, before grabbing his chin and holding him still for a proper, full, breathtaking kiss. It lingers and goes on, and Jim finds himself shamefully stroking Spock’s sash. They could use their robes for bedding, and it would be more comfortable. But it’s wrong. He shouldn’t untie it, shouldn’t aid in this, but it doesn’t matter; the kiss fogs his brain too much for him to manage knots or bows anyway. When Spock finally lets him go, it’s with the low promise, “I could never hate you.”

Jim nods. In Spock’s state, it shouldn’t mean anything. But Jim still believes it. Just to be sure, he insists, “I’m sorry.”

Spock kisses his apology away. 

Spock kisses him and kisses him and slithers out of the blue robe at the same time, Jim clumsily trying to help. When they’re both down to nothing, Spock’s hands let loose, running over Jim with new vigor, darting all over, fingers splayed and palms pressing hard: maximum contact. Everywhere Spock touches seems to glow with delight, responds with a shiver or leans into it, and Jim finds himself doing the same. He wraps himself tightly around Spock’s shoulders, and Spock pushes forward, moving Jim back, cradling him carefully and lowering him to the floor. Jim lets himself be dropped in the puddle of his own golden robes, and he takes Spock down with him. They’re right beside the cage, but it now seems so foreign, so long ago. The lack of light bathes them in a room of emptiness, masking all the walls of their surroundings and prison. Jim doesn’t need to see. His eyes flutter mostly closed, and his fingers and nose and memory paints the picture. 

It isn’t at all like how he thought it would be. He thought Spock would be a monster—and he _is_ a beast, hungry and feral—he thought it would be all violence, all hurt. Spock pins him to the ground with sheer body weight alone but otherwise covers Jim in _love_ , licks and kisses and tenderly caresses everywhere. By the time Spock’s hands make their way down to Jim’s thighs, he’s already spreading his legs, already bubbling with want. Spock repositions him easily, lies along his body between his open legs. Spock kisses him over and over again and grinds into his stomach. Both of their cocks are hard, but Spock’s is even larger than usual, engorged and pulsing, already dribbling precum. The more Spock rocks into him, the more comes out, until Jim’s stomach is covered in the sticky liquid. If he weren’t busy clinging to Spock’s shoulders, he’d shove his hand between them and spread Spock’s cum all over his own cock, use it as lube to jerk off in.

Kisses and more kisses, and when Spock stops to look between them, Jim whimpers at the loss. He tries to twist and shove them back together, but all he can reach is Spock’s nose. He stops whining as soon as he realizes what Spock’s doing.

A healthy scoop of cum is used for lube when Spock’s hand disappears between Jim’s legs, rubbing along the crack of his ass. Jim gasps immediately at the touch, legs spreading wider in the air. Somehow, he didn’t expect _pon farr_ to allow for preparation, but Spock rubs him several times before finding his hole, then stops to just circle it and tap at it. One finger probes first, stroking the puckered brim until Jim’s hole opens enough to allow entrance. That finger pops inside and presses in, sliding all the way at once and making Jim gasp, head rolling back. Spock goes all the way to the knuckle and pistons in place, incredibly long and slick with cum. It doesn’t hurt, doesn’t even feel sore, not even strange. Jim croons and rocks into it. He almost wants to forgo the preparation, beg Spock to take him right now, fuck him hard into the floor, but then Spock’s dick grinds into him again, and he knows he couldn’t take it. It’s too enormous—he’d break. With his head this fuzzy, he doesn’t even care if he gets hurt. But he knows that if Spock hurts him, Spock won’t forgive himself enough to do it again, and Jim _very much_ wants to do this again. 

Maybe they should just never stop. Spock quickly works his way up to a second finger, scissoring Jim open before attacking Jim’s throat—Jim just groans and writhes between the dual stimulation. Every time Spock shifts, Jim can feel the muscles move below the surface of Spock’s back. He can feel the curve of Spock’s spine as Spock’s body smoothly rolls into his again and again, cock sliding through the mess on Jim’s stomach. He’s pushed to three fingers, and the stretch makes him wince and release a sharp, pitiful keening noise, needing _more_ of that, right now. He tries to buck his hips up, cock slapping into Spock’s, and he moans and begs, “Spock... Spock, _fuck me_...”

Spock growls and slips his fingers away, lifting up his hips a moment later. Something blunt and wet presses at Jim’s open, too-empty hole, and he mewls with the knowledge of what it is. He’s been around the block, but he’s never been fucked by a Vulcan cock before. Never been fucked by anyone even close to Spock—no one as beautiful, as unique, as close to him. He’s never wanted anyone like this. Spock kisses his way along Jim’s cheek and stops to press their foreheads together, so hard that Jim’s skull might crack. When he breathes, the hot air puffs over Jim’s lips and into his mouth, rolling over his skin. Even without the light, Jim feels like he can _see_ into Spock’s head. 

Spock murmurs, so quietly that Jim can’t even be sure it was said aloud, “ _Beloved_... may I have you?”

Jim tries to lick his lips—a nervous habit—but they’re too close, and it swipes over Spock’s bottom lip too. Spock shivers, the sheer need seeping out of every pore. Jim doesn’t answer aloud, but he’s somehow certain that Spock knows it’s a resounding ‘yes.’ He kisses Spock to be sure, and Spock goes wild on him, devouring him whole. 

Spock’s dick shoves into him, and Jim’s gasp is stolen away. He’s being kissed so fervently that there is no recourse, nothing to do but writhe and shake under the sudden barrage of cock, so incredibly thick that Jim doesn’t think he can take it. At the same time, he knows he can, he was made for this, just to sheath Spock’s length. He’s stretched apart too quickly, and Spock’s entire shaft feels like it’s pulsing inside him, twitching all on its own. It’s so much more amazing than anything he’s ever felt. By the time Spock’s balls-deep in his ass, the pleasure’s dizzying. 

Then Spock starts to move, and all Jim can do is arch back and _moan_. Spock’s thrusts are fast, hard, so _deep_ , filling Jim up and leaving him half empty, taking him again. He’s pounded into over and over, and their discarded robes aren’t nearly enough padding, but he couldn’t care. His ass is split apart and nailed to the floor, and Spock breaks away from his mouth to lick a trail up to his ear, biting the shell and snarling, “I love your round ears...”

Jim would laugh if he weren’t being fucked too hard to make sense. That’s his line. The pointed tips of Spock’s ears are probably flushed green with fervor, but all Jim can see is the faint silhouette and the stars behind his own eyes every time Spock slams into the right spot. Spock finds it every time, aims at it, stabs it relentlessly. Jim’s never been fucked so good in his life. 

If Jim had his way, this would last forever. Seven years would pass in a blur of sweat and sex, and then it’d start all over, taking eternity to dwindle, hard fuck after hard fuck. Or maybe it’s just his cock thinking, trapped between their stomachs. The pressure on it every time Spock rolls into him is mind-blowing—Spock doesn’t even have to touch it. One of Spock’s hands is tracing Jim’s side, fingers parted, and the other is all over Jim’s hair and the side of his face. Jim expected to be pinned down and taken, but instead he’s given the perfect blend of making love and fucking like animals. Jim nudges Spock’s face with his nose to draw Spock back—he wants to be kissing when he comes. 

It isn’t long before he has to. He’s normally good with stamina, but it was never like this, and the overload of stimulation has his cock as solid as the cage bars. He doesn’t even try to touch it—he’d rather last. He has Spock all around him. Their tongues battle and their mouths suck and their hips buck, and then it’s too much, and Jim screams into Spock’s mouth with a barreling roar. His cock spurts out between them, mixing with Spock’s cum and wetting Spock’s chest, but Spock never stops. Jim’s rocked into again and again while his vision blanks and his mind reels. His balls have just finished emptying when Spock follows, burying deep inside him and howling release. The flood that follows forces a new scream from Jim’s chest—Spock seems to come whole rivers inside him, pouring so much that his ass can’t hold it, and it gathers and slips out around Spock’s still going cock. The noises in the air are disgusting, the smell thick and musky, but Jim’s brain isn’t functioning well enough to take it all in anyway. He has to stop kissing because he doesn’t have the wherewithal. 

Spock switches to mouthing at his jaw instead. Spock pulls out of Jim a minute later with a particularly wet squelching noise, and Jim gasps as he instantly begins to leak a copious amount of Vulcan cum. He could pass out right here.

Instead, Spock disentangles from him. Jim weakly tries to follow, but Spock holds him down, pushes his shoulder and guides him to roll over. Jim obediently lies on his stomach, too spent to bother looking over his shoulder. He lies there, panting, and Spock kisses the back of his neck. Something prickles between them, some bond that has no form but exists just as much as any other part of them. Spock’s fingers brush over his cheek. 

They part there, fingers splaying across his face as much as the new position will allow. Jim lies still and takes it, right up until Spock climbs over him. He makes a grunt of protest at the thigh that suddenly presses into his side, and the next thing he knows, Spock’s entire front is leaning over his back. They’re glued together by Spock’s own precum and Jim’s release, and Spock’s dick slides between the drenched cheeks of Jim’s ass, somehow still rock hard. Jim groans. He wants to ask for more time, but he knows pon farr isn’t open to negotiation. And he’s already decided to do what he has to for Spock. ...And even if he’s tired, he _really_ enjoyed the last round.

So he just lies there and lets Spock grind into him, lets Spock’s fingers find their way around his face. After a couple of thrusts, the dripping cock behind him nudges back at his hole. Jim’s still twitching, still sensitive, but he bites his lip, doesn’t protest. Spock kisses his shoulder and purrs, “ _T’hy’la_ , your mind...”

And he doesn’t have to say anything else: Jim knows. His body stiffens at the very idea. He knows what Spock wants, and he doesn’t... he’s always hated the idea of mind melds, always been terrified of doing them, of opening himself to a Vulcan like that. But it’s _Spock_ , and...

If anything, it doesn’t feel fair that he should see everything of Spock’s. Spock clearly has worst secrets, a worst past, private things that he wouldn’t share if he weren’t going mad. Jim doesn’t know if it’s a requirement of pon farr or not. In a second, it doesn’t matter.

Spock doesn’t wait for an answer. He surges suddenly forward, slamming his body down and pinning Jim to the floor, energy rushing through Jim’s mind like battering down the floodgates. He gasps and he’s swept away, pulled from reality in a dizzying spiral. The next thing he knows, he’s standing in a tall, open room, hooded figures all around him. They’re buzzing like insects. They tell him things, and he doesn’t understand, thinks he’s crying, and he reaches for someone to hold his hand, but that someone pulls away. 

He’s sucked back to the world of darkness, and Spock’s pushed inside him, stretching him wide, filling him deep, rolling into him. His chest is nearly convulsing, pulse too fast for this. For a brief second, he wonders if that was it—

Then he’s off again, seeing things, images and _feelings_ , emotions funneled into a tiny, dark little hole and locked away _tight_. He’s led down a long walkway, one Jim recognizes, one of his—Spock’s—earliest memories. The sky is everywhere around them and white, empty of clouds or the sun: a child’s warped memory obscured by the distance. At the doors of the temple, he’s given things. His arms are full of books, teachings, and he thinks, wonders so strong that it penetrates through both their skulls, _if I study hard, can I be one of them? Can I come out again?_ But the man with him holds no answers. If he did, they wouldn’t be here. 

Skipping along the banks of the fountain. Reading that skipping is childish and unbecoming. Tending to the garden and exploring every path. 

There is a time, was a time, when he tries everywhere. Ran from one place to another. Found nothing and more nothing, towering nothing, dark nothing and lighter nothing, big, open spaces of nothing and tiny little halls of nothing. His feet trace up the forgotten stairs of one narrow walkway that leads into the blinding sun, but it’s so high up that the air is thin and the path below is jagged and terrifying. It empties into nothing. For a brief moment, he thinks of throwing himself over.

Then he’s hyperventilating and racing back, hopeless all over again, _never goes back._ Over time, he forgets. He lives smaller and smaller until it’s just the room of furs and the garden and the fountain and the cellar of old books and things. He needs nothing else, and it is illogical to be where he does not need. He studiously reads the books, and he tries to remember the look of his father’s face, but he can’t quite picture it. Eventually, he learns that it doesn’t do to cry. 

He _yearns_ for something he can’t explain, and he finds it, in a golden human laid out just for _him_. He feels first like a demi-god graced with an array of sparkling treasures, then like someone’s deranged pet given trapped, live food. He wants... he _wants_... 

Jim’s sucked back out again and screams, jerking his head to the side and out of Spock’s grip. Spock doesn’t reinitiate, doesn’t explain, doesn’t clean up the mess, just keeps fucking Jim and sets to biting and licking his shoulders. Jim’s trembling and limp and awash with so many things he doesn’t understand, can’t reconcile. There’s no time or energy to sort out what he’s seen. He doesn’t know what Spock saw, if anything. But their heads are connected now, and Spock pushes into his head, _“I love you.”_ It crashes in with bruising force. _“I love you, t’hy’la, I love you so very much, you are so precious to me...”_

Jim can’t take it. He can’t. He’s going to pass out, he’s sure of it. He wants to tell Spock he feels the same way, but he can barely process the words. He doesn’t feel ravaged or broken like he was so sure he would, just satiated and _adored_ but _exhausted_. If Jim is a sacrifice, Spock is his king, taking every last breath that he has to give. 

_“I love you...”_ And that’s what does it. 

The flood of emotion is more than Jim’s body can take, and he drifts off in the middle of Spock’s movements. Everything washes suddenly black. It doesn’t matter, though; it’s safe.

Spock’s arms are holding him.


	12. ~

For the length of two days, Jim’s entire life is _Spock’s_.

He passes out too many times to count, but only for an hour or two here and there, and he still keeps vague track of the sunlight—the only real way to tell time. Sometimes, when he wakes up, he finds the bowls of fruit and water refilled and next to him. Four separate times he has to _beg_ Spock to stop fucking him long enough for him to relieve himself, and even then, he only makes it a short space away, still in the grand chamber. Spock stays too close, watches him the whole time; he can feel Spock’s eyes burning holes into the backs of his shoulders. When he needs to drink, Spock lifts the bowl to his lips, and when he needs to eat, Spock feeds him and kisses him between bites, sharing the food between them. It’s messy and unsanitary and inappropriate, but Jim doesn’t care. He’s being driven slowly to madness right along with Spock, constantly either too horny or too withered to think. Mostly too spent to move. 

Spock lays him down in their robes and kisses him again, kisses down his chin, his throat, licking over the dip in his collarbone. Jim lies still and drifts slowly in and out of consciousness while his lover’s tongue makes its way down his chest, dipping in to suckle at both of his nipples in turn. It continues down to his stomach and sticks into his navel; Jim almost laughs, but his throat is too sore from moaning and screaming to come out right. 

Spock kisses up and down Jim’s thighs, nips at his balls and laves over his cock, and Jim shivers. It takes considerable effort to finally lift his arm, to reach down and drop his hand onto Spock’s head. He means to stop it—there’s no point giving him attention—this is for _Spock_. But then Spock’s head only disappears lower, and Jim realizes what’s happening. Spock’s tongue dips beneath his balls, sliding down while Jim gasps, thighs twitching to life and lifting, spreading wider. Spock’s hands slip beneath his ass and hold him, while Spock’s tongue laps away at his hole, still stretched and dripping from all the rounds before. His eyes roll back in his head as the familiar waves of pleasure wrack him, body too spent to respond. But it still feels _good_.

Absently, he watches the light through the cracks in the ceiling, the thin rays that let him, every now and then, get a good look at the man he’s given his life to. He thinks it’s been two days, but he can’t be sure. The sun, he thinks, is high. Maybe Spock will let him sleep through the night. He’d sleep through the sex if he could, but Spock kisses him too much, hits his prostate too much, pushes too much _love_ through their bond. 

Spock stops rimming him long enough to kiss a messy line back up his body, until Spock’s draping over him again, lying down. Jim lets his neck be bitten and his hole be filled and is at least grateful that Spock makes an effort to support his own weight. Then Spock’s kissing Jim’s face again, and it blocks the light. Jim’s eyes fall closed. He keeps his mouth obediently open but doesn’t have the energy to kiss back. When Spock’s finished with his lips, he rolls his head to the side, letting his eyes close. Spock growls against his cheek, “Love you,” and Jim, somehow, manages to smile.

He knows. He mumbles, _“Love you, too,”_ through their connection and hopes it still holds true tomorrow. If this goes on much longer, he’s going to develop some serious back problems. 

His last thought is that bit of humour, and then he’s in a cloud of darkness again. He thinks he’s dreaming. 

But Spock’s still fucking him in the dream, just in a different place. In his mother’s stables, back in Iowa. He’s lying in the soft, comfy bed of hay, and Spock’s draped over him, pulling out and climbing up, lowering onto Jim’s cock. Jim grunts in satisfaction and bucks up, too tired even in this imaginary lie. Spock tells him it isn’t logical to move, and instead, Spock _rides_ him, haloed in a burst of sunlight through the wide barn doors. He’s an angel.

A horny-as-hell angel. Jim fades out of the dream and lies in limbo for a while, the sheer lack of _anything_ surprisingly restful. Spock’s always somewhere there, a spark in the back of his mind, but here, Jim’s safe, and sleeps. 

It’s a long time before Jim wakes again. He knows because he feels heavy, in a stupor, and the light’s dim but, as he slowly comes to, it seems to be getting brighter. The dawn of another day. It takes him a moment to realize that he isn’t being fucked or humped or even rubbed into. 

He’s still being _touched_ , but he’d be worried if he wasn’t. His head falls to the side and lands against Spock, chin digging into Spock’s hair. Spock’s lying on his side next to Jim, half draped over Jim’s body, breathing softly, warm but no longer scalding. His cock, nestled against Jim’s stomach, is half-hard, which is a marked improvement on rock-solid. Jim actually sighs in relief; this is the first time he thinks Spock has slept in three days. 

He doesn’t dare disrupt that, so for a long while, Jim ignores his growling stomach and the numbness in the shoulder Spock’s lying on. He shuts his eyes and tries to will himself back to sleep, but it doesn’t work. Instead, Spock eventually stirs, rolling closer, squeezing tighter, and breathing in heavily around Jim’s neck. Jim murmurs, “Good morning,” and lifts a hand to stroke through Spock’s hair. 

Spock murmurs, “Good... morning...” He rocks his hips against Jim’s, and it moves Jim enough to jostle his sore ass against the ground. He groans. He’s been fucked more than raw. Spock nips at his neck and purrs, “We should... relocate...” Jim just nods.

It takes a while for Jim to muster the strength to sit, and then they eat and drink, and then they stagger up and trudge down the steps, clinging to one another for support. Spock tries to hold the robes, but they slip through his arms, and Jim sighs, “Leave them.” It doesn’t matter. It hurts to walk, but he wants those furs. Spock won’t stop _touching_ him. Jim doesn’t really want it to stop, but it’s also difficult to walk with a full-grown man constantly draping over him. 

They hobble to the room of furs and manage their way to the center, and that’s all Jim can take. He needs more recovery time. He practically falls back down, luxuriating in the new comfort, and he’s not surprised to have Spock roll him over and climb atop him. It’s been a lot of the same positions, but Jim doesn’t have the strength to be on top in any capacity—that’ll have to come later in their relationship. For now, he sighs and lets Spock take him. 

Spock mutters, “Sorry,” and it’s strange to hear; makes Jim’s eyes open. He hasn’t heard that one in a few days, and it’s a sign, he thinks, that this isn’t going to last forever. Spock still kisses him fiercely, but in between, insists, “I am sorry. Tomorrow... tomorrow it will be better...” And he rocks his body into Jim’s, then rolls off.

He pushes Jim’s shoulder until Jim lies on his side, and Spock sidles up behind him, holding on and lining up. Jim’s not sure his hole’s ever going to shrink again with the way Spock’s been pounding into it and stretching it wide. He hisses as Spock slides back into him, taking him all up. His own cock’s had a bit of time to recover, but it doesn’t do more than twitch. It’s going to take a while before he can get fully hard again, he thinks. Spock spoons him and holds him and sets into a pleasantly gentle rhythm. Spock licks behind Jim’s ear, and Jim’s both relieved to think tomorrow will be better and slightly remorseful that they might have to be apart. 

And Spock might come to his senses, might feel differently. For now, Jim tentatively presses through their bond, checking how Spock is—it does feel a little... _saner_. But it’s regret he probes for, and he doesn’t find any. 

_“You were a gift for me,”_ Spock tells him through it, somehow both possessive and saccharine sweet. _“You are mine.”_

Jim can’t help but ask, _“Are you mine?”_ Even though he knows the answer. 

_“Of course. Body, mind, soul. I am yours, beloved.”_

Jim nods against the fur. Aloud, over the slapping sounds of flesh on flesh, Spock murmurs, “I am sorry.”

Jim says, _“I’m fine.”_

He presses back into Spock’s engorged cock, mainly just to show his devotion. There’s a buzz of dizziness constantly alight in his head from having his prostate nearly short-circuited. He thinks the nerve endings all over his upper body might flicker out from being kissed too much. He’s more than fine. 

But after Spock comes in him for the umpteenth time, he knows his abused ass just can’t take anymore. So he mumbles, “Come up here and fuck my mouth.” Even fragile as he is right now, he gets a thrill when he sees Spock’s dick pull out and still stay smothered in cum. Jim’s had a few second-hand tastes, but he needs to get the full experience before this ends. He knows he won’t be very good, not nearly as good as he could be, but in this state, he doesn’t think Spock will complain. 

Spock turns around and lies down in front of him, parallel but upside down. One of his legs drapes over Jim’s shoulder, and Jim opens his mouth, licking his bottom lip. He lets Spock know through the bond that Spock will have to do most of the work, but Jim’s mouth and throat are his to use. Spock tells him he’s good, so good. 

Spock licks at Jim’s cock, and even though he can’t get fully hard, Jim still shivers in delight. Spock continues to lap away at him while he reaches out with his tongue, scooping a large glob of fresh cum off the head of the cock in front of him. In the dim light, he can see that it’s mostly pink, green at the end, yellowish in places. The cum tastes sticky-sweet in his mouth, strange and oddly _addictive_ , like coffee or alcohol—bitter at first, then _wonderful._ Jim swallows and takes another lick, and Spock’s dick pulses happily in response. Jim sets in to lick it properly as much as he can before he’s spent more energy than he’s stored and he has to stop. Then he just stretches his mouth wide and flattens his tongue along the bottom of his mouth. He presses close to the head and repeats through the bond for Spock to go. 

Spock begins to piston into him, echoing a steady mantra of, _“I’m sorry,”_ and, _“I love you.”_


	13. ~

Coming to is groggy, and he isn’t ready yet. He curls tighter and can’t feel anything around himself, but he reaches through the bond and finds Spock, and that’s enough. He keeps his eyes closed and lets himself slip off again.

And then, after no dreams but general darkness, he’s yawning and stretching and deciding whether or not to move. He doesn’t really want to move. He feels impossibly heavy and sore in so many places, but as his eyes adjust to the faint morning glow, he realizes that Spock isn’t with him. He pushes through the bond and finds Spock still there, smaller but there, somewhere else. Sighing to himself, he slowly gets up. 

The usual bowls are there for him, but he’s not quite hungry yet. And it might feel strange, he thinks, to feed himself after having Spock’s fingers to do it. He prickles with the memory of licking juice from Spock’s hands, and it heightens his concern. Spock should be here with him. There aren’t that many different places Spock could be, but they should never be this far apart. 

It’s slow going down the corridor. Jim’s ass protests to every movement, and his legs are stiff, his posture ruined. He makes his way anyway, following the feeling of _Spock_ like a string that’s tied between them. It burns hotter the closer he gets and makes it easier to walk, to move—he should be by his t’hy’la’s side, and he knows that Spock needs him. 

He finds Spock by the small fountain, sitting at the edge of the water. He’s in his robes again, but they’re rumpled and not tied properly. He’s got his legs pulled up to his chest, head buried in his knees, and though he isn’t shaking with the telltale shudders of sobs, Jim knows that he’s in pain. Everything in Jim crumbles, until he summons it back up—no, this is what he’s for. He’s stronger and he can lead them, can fix this, won’t be sad, not now that it’s over and they’re safe and they’ve still got each other. 

His footsteps are soft up the stairs. He’s still naked but only cold with Spock’s absence, knows he’s being drawn to his personal heater. He’s covered in a crusted mess of dried cum and sweat, but that’s a problem for later. He knows that Spock could smell him a kilometer away.

He reaches Spock’s huddled form and waits, lets Spock slowly shift, head rising. His dark eyes have returned to normal, but they’re heavy with guilt, with sorrow. They’re a little red around the edges, but he isn’t crying. 

He opens his mouth and closes it again, saying nothing. Jim simply looks down at him, radiating that it’s alright. In this moment, Spock’s a child again. The poor, defenseless being that was left here so many years ago, with only books and vague memories to raise him. A human, Jim thinks, couldn’t have made it. But Spock did. It hits Jim like a horrible comet that Spock’s never had _anyone_ , and now he feels like he’s hurt, ruined, turned away the one person he ever had. 

Jim sinks slowly down beside him, arm already around him. Spock glances at the contact but doesn’t move, just looks back at Jim’s face and manages, “I... I am sorry.” He’s whispering. 

Jim shakes his head. “Don’t be. I’m glad things worked out as they did.”

“I stole the key. I retain my memories and I... I should not have done that.” A pause, and Spock adds, eyes closing, “And you should have run.”

Brushing fraying bangs aside, Jim places a kiss to Spock’s temple. He rubs Spock’s back with one hand and gently nudges Spock’s knees down with the other, encouraging Spock to unravel, to open up to him. As Spock unfurls, Jim pulls him in, holds him and strokes him, tells him through both the bond and the air, “You don’t mean that. It’s alright now.” Spock shakes his head, but it’s weak. Jim pets his hair and lets Spock bury his face in Jim’s shoulder, lets him transition from tolerating to holding to _clinging_ for dear life. The embrace grows so tight, so hot that it almost leaves Jim no room to breathe, but Jim knows Spock needs this, and he lets Spock hold him, let’s Spock shudder into him. 

Jim murmurs next to Spock’s ear, “I still love you. I hope you can love me back, even after what we’ve done.”

Spock’s head shakes. A myriad of tumbling, half-formed and broken apologies surges into Jim’s head; Spock’s too upset to use the bond right, and it would make Jim chuckle if he weren’t so busy frowning. Finally, Spock manages, the words muffled by Jim’s shoulder, “I love you.” Before he can say sorry, Jim hushes him. 

Jim says into Spock’s mind, _“That’s enough.”_ That’s everything. 

It’s all that matters, and for a few, long minutes, they just sit there, Jim petting Spock and Spock holding on. They’re quiet, loud in their bodies. Eventually, Spock shifts, and his head moves, straightens, comes up to press into Jim’s, at first a very hesitant, chaste kiss. Jim returns it with equal softness. His eyes are on Spock’s, and Spock presses their foreheads together. It feels like he’s searching Jim’s face for signs of this being _wrong_ , but there aren’t any. Jim doesn’t blame him. Jim’s sore, tired, but he isn’t hurt, and he’s determined not to give up what they’ve gained. Spock’s eyelashes lower, and he takes another kiss. 

He pulls back to murmur, “Did you... did you truly wish to escape... with me?”

It startles Jim, at first. Then he nods. He lifts his hands to cover Spock’s, thumbs tracing over the backs. “Yes, I... humans can’t live like this. I miss the sun.”

“You would have little chance if you left... if there even is a way—it was so long ago...”

“I’d have you,” Jim insists. “ _We_ would have a chance.” Then he’s off on a tangent, the fleeting ends of in-between daydreams, always resourceful. “We could hollow out fruit and fill them with water, bundle food in our robes and take as much as we could carry. It wouldn’t be easy, but men have made it up and down mountains before, and we’d have each other. We’re smart. We’re _strong_. We...”

“I have not been outside for a very, very long time,” Spock breathes. The tremor in his voice is tangible. A spark of emotion flickers through their bond: _fear._ Pon farr has left Spock’s defenses down. 

Jim kisses him, then kisses him again, holds him and tells him, “It’s alright. You’ll have me. We won’t stay out there, with all the people. We’ll find somewhere small, and we’ll work our way up to a freighter, something, anything, even if it’s small. And we’ll...” He doesn’t know. But they’ll find a way, and that’s a whole new life for another time. 

Spock admits shakily, “I had never truly thought of it. I... I never wanted to unleash myself on the population...”

“But you have a t’hy’la now,” Jim insists. “You’re bonded; you’re not a threat to anyone. And we’ll leave Vulcan. No one will ever find us, and if they do... well, we’ll have made it through one adventure...”

Spock doesn’t answer. His face is scrunched up like it’s in pain, but Jim searches him and can’t find it. Spock buries his head in Jim’s neck, hands holding so tight they’re almost claws. He’s shivering, then trembling, and Jim pets and soothes him. They don’t have to go if Spock doesn’t want to. But Spock _wants to_. Jim’s seen through the bond. He knows that this chapter in Spock’s life is over. He’s bonded now. He needs to spread his wings as much as Jim does, and they... they don’t belong here.

“Another day,” Jim promises quietly. “When we’ve rested and we’re stronger. For now, we can just clean up. Relax and be together.” Spock nods into him, taking all his orders. Jim lets Spock finish, lets Spock get everything else, drained. He half expects Spock to fall asleep in his arms. 

But eventually, Spock pulls back, and he presses another kiss to Jim’s mouth. He holds their heads together and insists, “ _My beloved._ ” 

Jim finally smiles, managing, “I love you.”


	14. ~

It’s a while before Jim’s fully recovered, and by then, he wants his turn. He wakes Spock up by nipping at elegantly tipped ears, rolling onto and grinding Spock into the furs. Spock grunts, then sighs, then makes a contented purring sound. He stays lying on his stomach while Jim writhes above him and kisses him and murmurs, “Today?”

Spock’s head turns to the side, eye peaking open. Jim doesn’t stop rubbing into him, just looks back and kisses his ear. Jim runs his hands down Spock’s shoulders, his arms, finding his fingers and twining them together. He promises Spock, “It’ll be okay.” And he pushes through the bond memories that he knows Spock’s already seen. He’s spent half his life running, knows how to duck the law, knows how to get out. It’s scary, yes, _but they’ll have each other_ , so how bad could it really be? This is a Vulcan shrine, and neither of them are truly Vulcans. 

Spock sighs again and says, “Very well.” But he doesn’t move, lets Jim hump him and prepare him with spit and too-dry fingers. The first one in is a tight squeeze, just as blaring hot as Jim expects, but it’s moist too. It grows wetter around Jim’s pistoning finger while Spock tiredly explains, “A Vulcan trait—self-preparation.” Jim grins so wide that a laugh comes out, and he pushes his finger in all the way to the knuckle. 

He nips at the back of Spock’s neck and insists, “You’re amazing.” He kisses Spock again and adds a second finger. 

“You will still take me when we leave here?” Spock asks while Jim slowly scissors him apart, the natural lube tingling pleasantly along his fingers. Spock gasps when Jim starts to corkscrew them in and out. Spock’s hands fist in the fur below. Jim shouldn’t have to answer that; it’s obvious. 

He answers anyway, sliding three fingers in for some final kneading, “We’ll take each other. Our situation will change, but we won’t.”

“Others—” Spock starts.

Jim cuts him off with a quick, “There are no others.” And he pulls his fingers out, presses his cock between the taut cheeks of Spock’s ass, and pushes inside. Any protest Spock might’ve made cuts off in a gasp, Jim groaning just as loudly. He sinks inside so easily, though it’s tight, so _tight_ , just slick and _perfect_. The pressure sucks him right in, until he’s balls-deep and so encased that he needs to take a moment just to breathe. He’s trying to support his own weight, up on his elbows, but it’s hard. He’s draped over Spock’s back, stomach aligned with Spock’s spine, and twists around to reach Spock’s mouth. While they’re kissing too much to talk, Jim can hear Spock’s apologies in his head; they should’ve done this before. Jim should’ve had a turn. Jim rocks his hips to show that it doesn’t matter. Pon farr was Spock’s time. This is Jim’s. 

Jim rocks into Spock a few more times, slow and sweet, just memorizing every last little feeling. Then he’s slipping off and out and rolling Spock over so they can be face-to-face, and he settles back down, pushes back in—Spock helps and reaches to pull them back together. It makes kissing easier. His hips roll in a steady rhythm, but Spock’s legs, wrapping around him, help. Spock’s walls seem to be sucking at him, trying to keep him inside. He reaches between them to wrap his fingers around Spock’s dick and gently stroke it in time with their movement. They’re clean now, but they never are for long. 

Even with the time and rest he’s had, Jim can’t last forever. There’s a part of him that wishes he could, that’ll miss this: just having the two of them in their whole wide universe. He tells himself they’ll find that feeling again in a place they chose. He sinks into Spock over and over, and then he hits the peak of what he can take, and he comes with a languid moan and still-rocking hips. Spock takes it beautifully, kisses him and holds him while he finishes. He keeps stroking until Spock follows a few latent thrusts later, spilling out between them. Jim doesn’t really stop, doesn’t pull out, just collapses down on top of his mate and breathes too heavily.

Eventually, Spock asks, “Was I acceptable?”

And Jim laughs, kisses him, and says, “Wonderful.” There’s something about knowing that he’s Spock’s one and _only_ that makes it even better. He’s far from a virgin himself. Spock’s inexperience doesn’t show. 

Pon farr more than made up for it. When Jim thinks he can move again, he pulls out and enjoys Spock’s whine too much. He gets up to his feet and walks over to their robes, knowing Spock will follow. They should have clothes on the outside.

“We’ll rip part of the bottoms off,” he suggests, and Spock nods. “We’ll use a razor. That should give us something to wrap food in.” Spock nods again, and somewhere along the lines, he’s gone from ‘are we really going to do this?’ to absolute. They gather up the robes but don’t bother dressing. They head to the small storage area where Spock finds a razor to use, and they take the robes to the fountain, climbing the stairs for as much light as they can manage. They lay the fabric on the ground and cut away what they can, so that the robes only cover to the knee. Then Jim glances at the water and decides, “We should probably wash off.”

They slip into the water, wipe away the evidence of their morning fun, and swim a lap just for the sake of it. When they run out of excuses to stay in the water, Jim, too, can feel trepidation setting in. Here, at least, it’s just the two of them. It may take a long while to find that sanctity again. Neither of them have a good history of playing well with others. But he sucks it up and tells himself not to let fear rule him; that’s not who he is. While he’s in this struggle, Spock reaches through the shallow waves to find his hand. 

They lie along the warm rocks for a while, drying off. They drink their fill and wander to the gardens, gathering the fruits they think will best survive the journey—hard ones and ones that can last. There are particularly large ones that vaguely resemble coconuts they collect and bring back, and Spock uses the razor to carve out little holes. They empty out the existing juice and hold them under the water to fill them, plugging the holes back up after with thick vines. They don’t know how much they’ll need, and the water-filled fruits are particularly heavy, but they take everything they can carry. Vulcans are stronger than humans, and Spock manages the heaviest makeshift bag.

They get dressed last, mostly dressing each other, just for an excuse to touch and have that reassurance. It was Jim’s idea, but he has no idea about Vulcan terrain. He says quietly, “If worse comes to worst, we’ll come back.”

Spock nods and tells him, “Vulcans can survive several days without food or water. If our supplies run out, I will carry you back.”

“And we’ll regroup and try another plan,” Jim forces himself to say, because he doesn’t like giving up. Spock doesn’t say anything. Jim has a sharp intake of breath. “We can do this.”

The only passageway that leads out is one Spock discovered very, very long ago. Neither of them knows if it’s still available—it could’ve caved in or be too difficult to find—but they head where Spock thinks to go nonetheless. It takes a long time, twisting and turning through many rooms Jim’s never been in, most of which are pitch-black and need to be felt along the wall of. 

And then they’re on stairs, jagged, crude stairs that twist and turn, leading higher and higher. Jim’s arms are already sore, and he’s shifted his bag around a dozen times, and he’s overheated from the journey and the warmth of the mountain and the work, but Spock tells him, “This is it,” and he already knew. He tries not to think while he walks: just breathe and experience.

Around the corner up above, light is slipping along the rocks. They climb, and it grows brighter as they come nearer. When they turn it, they can see the end of the tunnel: a thin slit in the curving rocks. Spock stops in front, and Jim, holding his breath, stalls behind. They can’t see anything from here, but...

Jim shifts the weight of the bag into one hand and reaches the other forward; Spock reaches back. They don’t clasp; they need their limbs while the walk, but they brush, and that’s the final push they both need. Spock starts walking again. 

The second they turn the final corner, it hits them all at once. 

Light. Great, blinding light consumes them, swallows them up from everywhere the eye can see—the red Vulcan sun high in the air. Jim’s breath is caught in his throat, feet still. For a long moment, Jim can’t see anything. He’s blinking and staggering, and he drops the bag to his feet so he can shield his eyes. The shadows his arms create are flimsy. He mumbles in his head, _“Spock.”_

Beside him, Spock is stock still, murmuring back, _“I could not... I did not remember...”_ And Jim knows that in this moment, no amount of hazy memory or foggy daydream could ever compare to what Spock’s witnessing. Jim’s not even sure his eyes can adjust, but slowly, Spock lowers to sit on the ledge of rock. Jim sits down next to him, still lost for words. 

The mountain is all behind them, stretching out to either side. They’re not at the tip, but when Jim throws his head back, he thinks he can see the top. Below him, the mist covers everything, but the mountain isn’t so steep; it’s full of twisting, winding, natural trails they could walk along. At some point, Jim thinks, the rivers must run out of it. But Jim can’t see them. Vulcans have superior hearing; Spock will pick one up and they’ll follow it. Jim can’t see anything ahead—more mountains are in the distance, but it’s mostly just _sky_. Jim always wanted to be a part of the stars. Earthbound, this is the closest thing. 

Spock’s head leans over onto his shoulder, and Jim holds Spock around the waist. The two of them sit and bask in the new surrounds, something so _strange_ that at first, they’re paralyzed. Spock handles it well, so very Vulcan, and Jim mumbles, “We can go back, if you like.”

But Spock shakes his head and manages, “You need freedom. And we... we should be in the stars.” They should. Jim knows it, but it means something to hear that Spock knows too. Jim pets Spock’s hair and pulls some bangs away to kiss his forehead. 

“Can you see?”

“I will adjust.” Which isn’t really an answer. Once, Jim thinks he may have heard about a Vulcan’s second inner-eyelid—some extra protection, but he can’t be sure. He doesn’t ask Spock, because it doesn’t matter. They’ll adjust, and if they don’t, the outside world has doctors and treatment and all sorts of new things. If they have to, they’ll go back.

Jim tells him, “Take as long as you need.”

Really, they both need it. They sit on the rock face for a long, long time, and it doesn’t grow any less blinding—that will take more time than they have. Finally, Spock breathes, “Let’s go.”

Terrified and excited all at once, Jim climbs to his feet. Spock’s right beside him. 

Together, they set off down the mountain, ready, at any moment, to leap and fly far away.


End file.
